Inspector Chizzlem.  No, your Worship.  These are one ounce gloves.  The gloves with which these men were to fight are known as “feather-weight” gloves.

Mr. Pheasant.  Ah, I see.  Feather-weight, not feather-bed, I presume. (Loud Laughter, in which both the accused joined.) Have you the actual gloves with you?

Mr. Titan Chapel (from the Solicitor’s table).  I have brought them, Sir.  Here—­dear me, what can I have done with them?  I thought I had them somewhere about me. (Pats his various pockets.  A thought strikes him.  He pulls out his watch.) Ah, of course, how foolish of me!  I generally carry them in my watch-case.

  [Opens watch, produces them, and hands them up to Magistrate.

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.

  [Winks at Lord TRIMI GLOVESON, who winks back.

Mr. Pheasant.  Really?  That is very interesting, very interesting indeed!  I think perhaps the best plan will be for the two principals to accompany me into my private room, to give a practical exemplification of the manner in which such a contest is generally conducted. (At this point the learned Magistrate retired from the Bench, and was followed into his private room by LOO BOBBETT.  BEN MOUSETRAP, and their Seconds.  After an hour’s interval, Mr. PHEASANT returned to the Bench alone.) I will give my decision at once.  The prize must be handed over to Mr. MOUSETRAP.  That last cross-counter of his fairly settled Mr. BOBBETT.  I held the watch myself, and I know that he lay on the ground stunned for a full minute. (To the Usher.) Send the Divisional Surgeon into my room at once, and fetch an ambulance.  The Court will now adjourn.