Ge-arge (from a further peephole). I say, Ben, 'ere's Mrs. Pearcey a murderin' Mrs. 'Ogg down this 'un—we're a-gittin' along!
Ben (puzzled). They must ha' skipped out a deal. I'm on'y at "Cain killin' Abel!"
Female Patron (to Proprietor). 'Ere, Master, I can't see nothen' down 'ere—'tis all dark like!
Proprietor. Let me 'ave a look! You shud put your 'ands so, each side o' your eyes, and—(He looks.) 'Um, it is rayther—but what else do yer expeck? It's a "View o' Paris by Night," ain't it—that's all right!
Outside "Professor Pugman's Sparring Saloon."
The Professor (on a little platform, with a pair of Pupils). Now then, all you as are lovers o' the Noble and Manly Art o' Self-Defence, step inside and see it illusterated in a scientific an' fust-class manner! This (introducing first Pupil, who rubs his nose with dignity) is 'Opper of 'Olloway, the becoming nine-stun Champion. This hother's Batters o' Bermondsey, open to fight any lad in England at eight-stun four. Is there anyone among you willing to 'ave a round or two with either on 'em fur a drink an' admission free?—if so, now's his time to step forward—there's no waiting, mind yer?
Joe (to Melia). I b'lieve as 'ow I could tackle the little 'un—I used to box above a bit.
Melia. Don't ye now, Joe; you'll on'y go and git yourself 'urt or summat!
Joe. I shan't git 'urt. 'Ere, Master, I'm game fur to put on the gloves wi' 'im.
Prof. Git inside with yer then! (To Crowd.) Now then for the Great Glove Contest—Just goin' inside to begin—Mind, there's no waitin'!