day of fighting, he became timid and nervous
when mention was made of the compensation-
benefit to be announced in to-morrow's Sleepless.
"Let us 'ave no names mentioned as
backing Gus, or bringing him to fight—a old
friend of Field's, that's all."  This speech, given
with the air of a detected conspirator, was
repeated mechanically and at short intervals during
the stay of himself and Oils.  Nay, five minutes
after they had left, the door reopened, and the
prominent eyes and queer figure-head face again
looked timorously in, and, as a parting shot,
whispered mysteriously: "No names mentioned,
if you please"—and then pointing with thumb
to waistcoat, with the air of a man making a
startling and perfectly novel admission—"an
old friend of Field's, that's all."  When this
elderly nuisance has retired finally, I ask
whether Oils had his front teeth knocked out last
Monday, or in previous conflicts, and, much to
my surprise, receive  "Stomach"  for  answer.
The curious point of this reply, and of its effect,
is, that it seems to be made, and is
certainly received, under a certain sense of
injury.  That poor Oils should lose his teeth from
natural causes, instead of having them knocked
down his throat, seems a violation of the fitness
of things, and an irregularity on the part of Oils to
be condemned.  So, when I hear that the "clever
lad," young Walloper, who is engaged to fight
another "clever lad" for five pounds a side, and
who has heard that Spice and Cuss "'as changed
their day of fightin'"—when I hear that his
false eye is due to an accident instead of to the
prize-ring, I cannot help feeling that Walloper
is to blame.

The victorious Welsh mammoth, O'Boldwin,
comes in jubilant, attended by his friend and
second Davie Garden, whose hostelry is his
head-quarters, and as such is regularly advertised
as the champion's home.  The mammoth has a
grievance.  He is described in the papers as
O'Boldwin, and as six feet seven inches high;
whereas he "never 'ad a Ho to his name, and
six foot five and a 'arf is the most he never
stood."  Rectification is promised, and the
mammoth is appeased.  I look respectfully at
the hands whicn have made the cheeks of Oils
to be like over-ripe pears, and the eyes of Oils
to be as if set in beetroot; and I find them
large, bony, and not over-clean.  I glance at
the feet which have "toed the scratch" so
recently and triumphantly, and I see that they
are of a size proportionate to the mammoth's
height.  "Mind you don't knock your head,"
was a necessary warning as he stooped to enter
the doorway; and the "Don't understand
anything about it, sir," in reply to a question as to
his alleged leaning to Fenianism, sums up to a
nicety my estimate of his character.  Not
understanding anything about it, would, I imagine.
but too accurately express poor Boldwin's
ideas of the world outside the prize-ring.  Like
his late opponent, he seemed the personification
of good temper; and if it were respectful to so
describe the heroes of a protracted battle, I
should say they were a couple of overgrown
school-boys, each of whom is as wax in the
hands of associates and leaders craftier than
themselves.  The red-faced publican old Davie
Garden is in great force, tor as the ostensible
backer and trainer of Boldwin—I
drop the "Ho," as requested—he has made
money and reaped honour from the victory.
Full of cheery suggestions for the future,
and successive triumphs for his man, the alloy
inseparable from earthly happiness appears in
the profoundly sad reflection:  "You see, you
can't fight everybody!"  which chastens his
otherwise exuberant joyousness.  That Spice
has "a dark big 'un" down at Puddlepool, who
might do for Boldwin; that Turpin might fight
agin if we tempted him with a hoffer; that
Pike Badun wants to fight the Mammoth; and
that a jint benefit for 'im and Oils will be
shortly given in the hopen, so as to keep off the
East-enders, are the heads of Mr. Garden's
discourse: who throughout the interview gives
one the impression of a man on consummately
good terms with himself and his little world.

The next visitor, Raven, bore a striking
contrast to Boldwin; for while the latter's face had
scarcely a scratch upon it, the former was
plastered and patched, and had the disappointment
of going home that night to Warwickham
without having settled the supremacy with his
rival, Rile.  "I have very good flesh, sir, very
good indeed!" was his modest acknowledgment
of the compliments paid to the fewness of his
scars.  For though, to my uninitiated gaze, a
monster cavity over the right eye, seamed and
swollen cheeks, and divers strips of white
plaister over and about a face which looks pallid
from loss of blood, present a shocking spectacle
enough, they are but slight indications, if the
battered condition of the man at the fight of the
day before, be remembered.  Cob Rivers and a
sharp business-looking man, who was one of
Raven's backers, accompany the latter now, and
an order is given for the money staked to be
given up.  Rile had drawn his, before my arrival;
and a terrible rumour reached the editor's room
soon after, that he was in the hands of  "the
Philistines," and had been accompanied to the
bank where the cheque from the Sleepless
office would be cashed by two light-hearted
gentlemen, who are fond of card-playing, and
renowned for their good fortune.  Cob looks half
Jew, half mulatto, and is fashionably dressed in
a long black surtout, an obtrusive bright green
scarf covering his chest.  The backer, the fighter,
and he, chat pleasantly about Raven,  "first
taking a little rest," and then challenging some
presumptuous person unnamed, who has publicly
vaunted his superiority.  A short talk as to the
probability of the other backers following the
liberal example of the one present, and giving
Raven the money they staked on him; and the
trio depart.

I thank the editor of the Sleepless for the
privilege so courteously accorded me, and take
my leave.  Pondering upon what I have seen
and heard, I pass absently into the street,
still filled with raffish loungers, and am only
roused from a painful reverie by having a
dirty finger thrust in my face, while its owner