O'Boldwin the redoubtable; whereupon the
face of Cuss assumes as doggedly savage an
expression as it has been my lot to see, and
his resolution finds words in  "He won't get
it without fighting for it, that's all I've got to
say."

The fates were propitious, for Cuss and old
Davie had scarcely left the room when the former's
opponent in the coming fight, the great Zeb Spice,
whose "science" is a proverb, came in.  He
looked clean, smart, and prosperous, was
faultlessly attired as a sporting gentleman, smiled
benignly but knowingly at me, much as if we
shared between us the secrets of the ring, and
then gracefully presented the editor with a couple
of portraits of himself.  A much more agreeable
specimen of humanity than the savage-looking
Cuss, Mr. Spice verges on dandyism in his
apparel and ornaments.  His magnificent chest
and limbs were clothed in garments befitting the
daily associate of the rank and fashion of
Puddlepool, his breast-pin, ring, watch-chain, and
silver-mounted switch, were massive and costly,
his voice was persuasive, and his manner
ingratiating.  It pleased me to hear him say that
after May he would fight no more, but limit his
attention to the great Puddlepool gymnasium
he is said to rule so well.  I learn with breathless
interest, though, that he has  "a big 'un in
training, who'll be quite clever enough for
O'Boldwin," and infer that Spice's heart is, after
all, in the ring he promises to leave.

Tommy Scotch, a respectable-looking middle-
aged man, formerly, I hear, a well-known fighter
at eight stone five—I like exactitude—has a
boy he wishes to put to school, and, after the
usual knock at the door, comes up to the desk to
consult with, and receive encouragement and
advice from, the editor.  Beattie is about to take
a benefit, and hands in the particulars, which are
duly filed and published.  Wolloper and friend
are uneasy as to the day fixed for their fighting,
and request another look at  "the articles."
Bloss brings in the news that a second bobby's
been sent to watch the crowd outside;—there
was a fight there of seven rounds without
interruption a fortnight before.  Benny Bailey thinks
he won't be "fit" in time for his mill; and
George Fibbins asks for the return of the two
pounds deposit-money he left here some time
back, "which ain't never been covered yet."
All these people, and many others who enter
in rapid succession, are prize-fighters, or their
tutors, disciples, and abettors, and every
arrangement is made upon the purest business
principles and in the most systematic way.  The
deposit receipt is produced, examined, and
endorsed by the editor, and Fibbins walks down
to the cashier's department much as a man
would do who was transferring his savings, or
drawing the interest due to him from some
provident bank.

To him succeeds Mr. Jennett,  "Farmer
Jennett,"  the well-known bookmaker, of the
great Guelph betting-club, who is interested in
the monument about to be erected to the memory
of the late Mr. Sayers, and who, I take the
liberty of remarking, is as clean and wholesome
looking a little gentleman as the most fastidious
could desire.  A shrewd bright eye and pleasant
smile, a hard and rather dried-up face, quick
decided movements of hands and arms, and a
neat assortment of jewellery, including a very
horsy breast-pin, are the points in Farmer
Jennett's appearance I remember best.  He was
Mr. Sayers's principal backer as well as one of
his most influential and trustworthy friends; and
he is now his executor and the guardian of his
memory.  The Farmer is disappointed at
not seeing the design for the monument,
but is gratified to hear that it will be
completed in about nine months, and that
it is to consist of a mausoleum with closed
doors, guarded by Mr. Sayers's mastiff, in white
marble, and adorned by a medallion portrait of
Mr. Sayers outside.  Should the sculptor want an
advance, Mr. Jennett is ready for him; should
the editor wish to see the farmer at any
time, a line to the Guelph will be his best plan,
for "being so much out of town when racing's
on, I ain't always good to find in London."
Enter here, hoarse and toothless, Bill Kind, of
Westminster, who is fifty-two years of age, and
is engaged to fight another man as old as
himself.  Mr. Kind looks older than he is, and
hands in the announcement of the public-house
benefit he proposes to take before going into
training, with an agreeable growl, such as one
might look for from an amiable wild beast.
"Honly thirty shillings a side stated in
last Saturday's Sleepless, which it oughter be
twopundten,"  refers to the amount of the
weekly instalment paid by each combatant.
And Mr. Kind departs gladdened by the
promise that this important matter shall be set
right.

Another knock at the much-suffering door,
and a tall young fellow, with heavy bloodshot
eyes, swollen discoloured cheeks, and a good-
tempered sheepish expression on his vacuous
face, comes in.  This is Augustus Oils,  "the
defeated but not disgraced" of Monday.  The
sympathetic greeting, "He's too big for you,
Gus!"  was evidently appreciated by the
vanquished man, who fumbled nervously at his cap,
and, though he smiled and laughed when speaking
of his defeat, was evidently mortified, discomfited,
and out of spirits.  The repetition of,
"It only shows, sir, wot a bad judge Willy
Sands must be, who told me I could beat him,"
seemed to afford some meagre comfort; but the
"He's too big for any one, that's my belief,"
came out with marked sincerity; and poor Oils
retired, after thanking all present for their
kindness.  Having brought his poor battered
carcase to be seen, he was grateful not to be
twitted on its having suffered in vain.  He was
accompanied by a very funny old man, whose
eyes seemed staring in astonishment at their
owner being still alive.  Trainer, valet, hanger-
on, or backer—it was not quite clear in which of
these capacities he figured, or why he figured
here at all.  Mournfully despondent when insisting
that the condition of Oils was perfect on the