He ceased.  The Wise One gazed in silent gloom,
While oaths and uproar hurtled through the room—­
“Hi, there, a monkey on the Pollux Pet;”
“Fifty to forty;” “Blank your eyes, no bet;”
“A level thousand on the Castor Chick;”
“Brandy for two, and, curse you, bring it quick.” 
While one who spake to Punch rapped out an oath—­
“Who cares?” he said, “I stand to win on both. 
Fair play be blowed, that’s all a pack of lies,
Let fools fight fair, while these cut up the prize. 
Old Cock, you needn’t frown; I’m in the know,
And if you don’t like barneys, dash it, go!”
One blow from Punch had quelled th’ audacious man,
He raised his hand, when, lo, the fight began.

“Time! time!” called one; the cornered ruffians rose,
Shook hands, squared up, then swift they rained in blows. 
Feint follows feint, and whacks on whacks succeed,
Struck lips grow puffy, battered eye-brows bleed. 
From simultaneous counters heads rebound,
And ruby drops are scattered on the ground. 
Abraded foreheads flushing show the raw,
And fistic showers clatter on the jaw.

* * * * *

Now on “the mark” impinge the massive hands,
Now on the kissing-trap a crasher lands. 
Blood-dripping noses lose their sense of smell,
And ribs are roasted that a crowd may yell. 
Each round the other’s neck the champions cling,
Then break away, and stagger round the ring. 
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.