[Joe and "Batters o' Bermondsey" walk round each other and make a fumbling attempt to shake hands, after which Joe, while preparing to deliver a blow with extreme caution and deliberation, is surprised by a smart smack on his cheek, which makes him stagger; he recovers himself and prances down on Batters with a windmill action.
Batters (limping into his corner). 'Ere, I say, ole man—moind my tows—foight at yer right end!
Joe (apologetically). I didn't mean nothing unfair-like—I warnted fur to take off them 'ere boots—but I warn't let!
Batters. I'll let ye—fur 'taint no corpet slippers as you've got on, ole feller, I tell yer strite!
[Joe removes the offending boots.
Spectators (during the second round, which is fought with more spirit than science on Joe's part). Ah, Joe ain't no match for 'un—he let un 'ave it then, didn't he? My word! but it's "Go 'ome an' tell yer Mother, an' ax yer Uncle 'ow ye be" with 'un, pretty near every time!
Prof. (with affected rapture). Oh dear! Oh lor! What doins! Time! you two, afore ye kill one another! Now, Gentlemen, a good clap, to encourage 'em. I think you'll agree as the Volunteer is showin' you good sport; and, if you think him deservin' of a drink, p'raps one o' you will oblige with the loan of a 'at, which he'll now take round. (The hat is procured, and offered to Joe, who, however, prefers that the collection should be made by deputy.) Don't forgit 'im, Gentlemen! (Coppers pour into the hat, and the last round is fought; B. of B. ducking Joe's blows with great agility, and planting his own freely in various parts of Joe's anatomy.)
Spectators. 'E'll be knocked out in a minnit, 'e will! Don't sim to git near 'un no 'ow. Look a' that—and thar agin! Ah, Joe got one in that time—but the tother's the better man—'e don't touch 'un without 'ittin' of 'un—d'ye see? Time! Ah, and time it was time, too—fur 'im!
Prof. (to Joe, as he sits blinking, and blowing his nose with vigour). That was a jolly good fight—tho' rough. You've some notion o' sparrin'—we'd soon make a boxer o' you. 'Ere's your share of the collection—sevenpence ap'ny. We give you the extry ap'ny, bein' a stranger. Would you feel inclined to fight six rounds, later on like, with another of our lads, fur ten bob, now?
Joe (making a futile attempt to untie his glove with his teeth). Much obliged, Master, but I've 'ad about enough spree a'ready to do me fur a bit.