(At the Sign of the "Castor and Pollux.")
DEAR MISTER PUNCH,—Look at 'ere! This is not one of your penny papers—there was none on 'em in my time—ups and says, says it:—"The travelling expenses from America of Mr. JACKSON, who is coming to England to fight Mr. SLAVIN for the Championship of the World, are reckoned at no less than £150."
Wy, wot a delikit plarnt, wot a blooming hexotic, this "Mister" JACKSON (oh, the pooty perliteness of it!) must be! Saloon passage and fust-class fare, I persoom, for the likes of 'im. Isters and champagne, no doubt, and liquoor brandy, and sixpenny smokes! A poor old pug like me wos glad of a steak and inguns, and a 'arf ounce o' shag, with a penny clay. And as to "travelling hexpenses"—I wonder wot the Noble Captings of our day would 'ave said to the accounts laid afore your "National Sporting Club!" £2000 for the Purse, and £150 for Mister JACKSON's travelling hexpenses!!! Oh, I say! Pugs is a-looking up! And yet I'm told some o' your cockered-up fly-flappers carnt 'it a 'ole in a pound o' butter, or stand a straight nose-ender without turning faint! Evidently funking and faking pays a jolly sight better than 'onesty and 'ard 'itting.
Well, well, Mister Punch, I'm hout of it now, thanksbe. And I ain't sure as I could shape myself 'andy to the Slugger SULLIVAN and JEM SMITH kind o' caper. The "resources o' science" is so remarkable different from what they wos in my days, and include so many new-fangled barnies as we worn't hup to. These 'ere pugilistic horchids, so to speak, wants deliket 'andling in the Ring, as well as hout on it, and a fair 'ammering from a 'onest bunch o' fives might spile the pooty look of 'em for their fust-clarss Saloons, Privet Boxes, and Swell Clubs. But you can tell Mister JACKSON, Eskvire, an cetrer, an cetrer, an cetrer (put it all in, please, Sir, as I vant to be perlite), that in my day I'd a bin only too 'appy to fight 'im to a finish (which mighn't ha' bin in five minutes, either, hunless he wanted it so), for—his Travelling Hexpenses!!!
Yours to kommand,
THE CHICKEN.
Singular Plurality!
O SHAW-LEFEVRE, was it but fatality,
Or could it be because the subjects bore 'em,
That, when you wished to argue on plurality.