Joe. 'Ere, Melia, come along in, and look arter my 'at an' coat.
Melia. I dussen't, Joe! I can't abear to see no fightin', I'll bide 'ere till ye come out.
[Joe enters the tent, followed by the Pupils and a few Connoisseurs.
Prof. (looking into the interior of tent through a slit in the canvas). Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'! They're puttin' on the gloves now, make 'aste if you're goin' in! (The Crowd hesitate.) 'Ere! (To the Champions.) Step outside once more and show yourselves!
[The Champions appear, re-mount the platform, and are introduced all over again.
Melia (intercepting her swain). Joe, 'ow are ye gittin' on? You don't look none the worse so fur; is it neelly over?
Joe (gruffly). Neelly over! why, we ain't begun yet—nor likely to wi' all this bloomin' palaverin'!
Melia. I do wish 'twas over—Kip a good 'art, Joe; don't let 'un go knockin' ye about!
Joe (with a slight decrease of confidence). Theer's a way to talk! I doan't reckon as 'ow he'll kill me, not in three rounds, I doan't, but if I'd a-know'd there'd be all this messin' about fust, I'd a—
[He goes inside gloomily.