Now panting Pollux fails, his fists move slow,
He trips, the Chicken plants a smashing blow.
The native "pug" lies spent upon the floor,
Lies for ten seconds,--and the fight is o'er.
* * * * *
Thunders of cheering hail th' expected end,
High in the air ecstatic hats ascend.
While frenzied peers and joyous bookies drain
Promiscuous bumpers of the Club champagne.
But _Mr. Punch_ had seen enough.
[Illustration]
"Do you call this one-round job a fight?" he said, as he rose to
depart. "I call it the work of curs and cowards. Who can call these
fellows fighting-men? They are merely mop-sticks. Men were ruffianly
enough years ago in the country we have left, but they were men
at any rate. Here, they seem to be merely a pack of bloodthirsty
molly-coddles, crossed with calculating rogues. The mob outside was
better than this. But, thank Heaven, we have nothing like this in
London."
And with that he and Father TIME walked gloomily from the hall, and
found themselves once more in the street.
* * * * *
"What ho! my trusty Shooting Star," cried _Mr. Punch_. Whirr-r-r--
And in the thousandth part of a second they found themselves within
measurable distance of TOBY's own Planet. And here _the_ Dog speaks
for himself.
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