But Mr. Punch had seen enough.
"Do you call this one-round job a fight?" he said, as he rose to depart. "I call it the work of curs and cowards. Who can call these fellows fighting-men? They are merely mop-sticks. Men were ruffianly enough years ago in the country we have left, but they were men at any rate. Here, they seem to be merely a pack of bloodthirsty molly-coddles, crossed with calculating rogues. The mob outside was better than this. But, thank Heaven, we have nothing like this in London."
And with that he and Father TIME walked gloomily from the hall, and found themselves once more in the street.
"What ho! my trusty Shooting Star," cried Mr. Punch. Whirr-r-r—
And in the thousandth part of a second they found themselves within measurable distance of TOBY's own Planet. And here the Dog speaks for himself.
