to bear" the whole sporting world, Mr.
Filer sits in his shirt-sleeves, puzzling himself
over Bradshaw. He is very fleshy, and, as he
rolls his vast hulk to and fro on the slender
chair supporting him, and directs his solitary eye
with a troubled expression to the mysteries of
the train-table, he looks very like the
hippopotamus of the Regent's Park Gardens, as it
rises in the water-tank, and lazily winks the
small orb uppermost, at the children and country
cousins teasing it with exclamations, or tempting
it with food. "Can't make it out, blanked
if I can!" says Mr. Filer at last, sidling up to
Leofwine and myself, who stand alone at his
counter—for our leader had reasons of his own
for not joining us in this visit; "thought it were
Orley, and then felt sure it must be Farnberer,
but I see there ain't no trains there so early, so
I'm blanked if I don't think it's goin' to be a
special after all."

We give ourselves knowing airs, and tell Filer
that he need not puzzle himself over Bradshaw,
for the battle-field will be at a considerable
distance from any station named there. Our
united assurances convince him, and we have
pleasant talk concerning his present size and
fighting weight, his appearance and demeanour
on the day he seconded King, and his anticipations
for the morrow. Again it is curious to
mark how much more stress is laid on the two
light weights who come after the champions,
than upon the champions themselves. Mr. Filer
becomes radiant when, speaking of Lickem's
gameness, and generously adds that Walloper is
a good 'un too, and that he'd "seen 'em both
weighed that mornin', and there hadn't been a
prettier match this many a day." We were the
only customers at Mr. Filer's bar, and his wife
was the only attendant behind it. This, be it
remembered, was a few hours before two fights,
in each of which he figured as second, so the
form of punishment adopted by the Sleepless
Life for Mr. Filer's conduct would seem
effective, and to have inflicted a serious blow
upon this rebellious fighter's trade.

Keeping our promise, we look in at Larry
Shuntem's on our return, to find him a shade
more snuffling and smiling, as if libations have
been offered up to the leg and arm while we
have been away, and, resisting his obvious wish
to show us those athletic treasures again, we bid
him good night.

Next, a long cab-ride, and we are in Narrow-
court, Straight-street, Hatton-garden. Old
Billy Slew's famous establishment is here, and
we are face to face with that veteran dog-fancier
and rat-killer, a few minutes after our entrance.
He is pallid, puffy, one-eyed, and drunk. A
charming selection of lively bull-dogs, with big
heads and hanging watery jowls, occupy the
long wooden bench which skirts the wall on
one side of his tavern parlour; and these pull at
their chains, and snap, and endeavour to prove
the boasted tenacity of their hold, in a way
slightly embarrassing to a stranger. Old Billy
stumbles and staggers to the door, and, after
hiccupping out a few marital curses at his                                                                 buxom smiling wife, who receives them with
the indifference we feel for accustomed
compliments, proceeds to render homage to Harold.
"Let me interdooce yer to two friends of mine,
gents, as has come up all the way from Wedgebury
for to-morrer's fight." "'Ad the pleasure
o' seein' yer win heasy on the Uxbridge-road
nearly twenty year ago; will yer pick a bit
with me, sir;?" is the response of one of
these, who is tossing mutton-chops into his
mouth far more rapidly than an ordinary being
could swallow pills. The hospitable offer is
declined, and after visiting the house kept by
Slow's son, known as "Young Jemmy's," we
return to Rat Bangem's, to find the bar and
up-stairs room far fuller than when we left
three hours ago, and the sale of two-guinea
tickets still going merrily on.

The ludicrous result of the mock battle, and
the craven conduct of the two brawny scamps,
about whom so much fuss had been made, are
sufficiently well known. But it was curious to
note the demeanour of the warriors present,
after the ring was broken into, and the police
constables were in the midst. That gallant
patron of pugilism, Colonel Strip, who is the
son of a dignitary of the Established Church, and
deservedly popular among "the Fancy," quietly
stole off, and speedily put several fields
between himself and the men he had been alternately
encouraging and anathematising, a few
minutes before. One of Mr. Cuss's seconds,
Mr. Black Kicks, whose playful exuberance of
spirit had impelled him to grimace and yell at
Spice as "a worn-hout old himage, as huseless
and good for nothin' as my old mother," from
the safe security of his corner, devoted his
energies to "squaring " the policemen. One
of these had been first knocked down, and then
cruelly kicked and beaten about the head, and
was now, pale and bleeding, silently stalking
through the crowd in the hope of identifying his
assailants. "We're hevery one of us liable, hevery
blank one of us," hoarsely whispered Bawldog
[of London] feelingly; whereupon Spice and
Tom Byng were appealed to,and it was resolved to
subscribe for compensation for the wounded man.

Mr. Spice holds up his five fingers to denote
the number of shillings he will give towards the
"squaring" process, and then in a burst of
liberality cries "make it ten;" Honey, "handsome
Honey," who is the proprietor of a night-
house near the Haymarket, and who in light
kid gloves and well-cut clothes looks every inch
a sporting patron, suggests that Tom Byng
should take the cap round; while Jackem,
with his face bruised and bleeding from the
blows inflicted by Mr. Ross Filer, in the pleasant
little fight those two gentlemen engaged in
before the serious business of the day, looks on
in sulky meditation, and repeats to any one
who will listen that he'll have "Master Ross's
blank 'art and liver yet, if it's twenty year
afore he meet 'im." Walloper and Lickem are
having their clothes rapidly huddled on, and
their faces sponged and cleaned; Cuss answers