Mr. Pheasant. Dear me!—so these are gloves. I know I am inexperienced in these matters, but they look to me rather like elastic bands. (Roars of laughter. Mr. PHEASANT tries them on.) However, they teem to fit very nicely. Yes, who is the next witness?
The Earl of Arriemore (entering the witness-box). I am, my noble sportsman.
Mr. Pheasant. Who are you?
The Earl of Arriemore. ARRIEMORE'S my name, yer Washup, wich I'm a bloomin' Lord.
Mr. Pheasant. Of course—of course. Now tell me, have you ever boxed at all yourself?
The Earl of Arriemore. Never, thwulp me, never! But I like to set the lads on to do a bit of millin' for me.
Mr. Pheasant. Quite so. Very right and proper. What do you say to the gloves produced by the inspector?
The Earl of Arriemore. Call them gloves? Why, I calls 'em woolsacks, that's what I calls 'em. [Much laughter.
Mr. Pheasant. No doubt, that would be so. But now with regard to these other gloves, do you say they would be calculated to deaden the force of a blow; in fact, to prevent such a contest from degenerating into a merely brutal exhibition, and to make it, as I understand it ought to be, a contest of pure skill?
The Earl of Arriemore. That's just it. Why, two babbies might box with them gloves and do themselves no harm. And, as to skill, why it wants a lot of skill to hit with 'em at all.