قراءة كتاب Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 3, 1892
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 103, December 3, 1892
class="sc">Eve are represented "After the Fall," overwhelmed with confusion, while the lion is stalking off scandalised, with a fine expression of lofty moral indignation.) 'Ere they are agen! that theer lion thinks he's played sofy to 'en long 'nough, seemin'ly!
Ge-arge (from a further peephole). I say, Ben, 'ere's Mrs. Pearcey a murderin' Mrs. 'Ogg down this 'un—we're a-gittin' along!
Ben (puzzled). They must ha' skipped out a deal. I'm on'y at "Cain killin' Abel!"
Female Patron (to Proprietor). 'Ere, Master, I can't see nothen' down 'ere—'tis all dark like!
Proprietor. Let me 'ave a look! You shud put your 'ands so, each side o' your eyes, and—(He looks.) 'Um, it is rayther—but what else do yer expeck? It's a "View o' Paris by Night," ain't it—that's all right!
Outside "Professor Pugman's Sparring Saloon."
The Professor (on a little platform, with a pair of Pupils). Now then, all you as are lovers o' the Noble and Manly Art o' Self-Defence, step inside and see it illusterated in a scientific an' fust-class manner! This (introducing first Pupil, who rubs his nose with dignity) is 'Opper of 'Olloway, the becoming nine-stun Champion. This hother's Batters o' Bermondsey, open to fight any lad in England at eight-stun four. Is there anyone among you willing to 'ave a round or two with either on 'em fur a drink an' admission free?—if so, now's his time to step forward—there's no waiting, mind yer?
Joe (to Melia). I b'lieve as 'ow I could tackle the little 'un—I used to box above a bit.
Melia. Don't ye now, Joe; you'll on'y go and git yourself 'urt or summat!
Joe. I shan't git 'urt. 'Ere, Master, I'm game fur to put on the gloves wi' 'im.
Prof. Git inside with yer then! (To Crowd.) Now then for the Great Glove Contest—Just goin' inside to begin—Mind, there's no waitin'!
Joe. 'Ere, Melia, come along in, and look arter my 'at an' coat.
Melia. I dussen't, Joe! I can't abear to see no fightin', I'll bide 'ere till ye come out.
[Joe enters the tent, followed by the Pupils and a few Connoisseurs.
Prof. (looking into the interior of tent through a slit in the canvas). Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'! They're puttin' on the gloves now, make 'aste if you're goin' in! (The Crowd hesitate.) 'Ere! (To the Champions.) Step outside once more and show yourselves!
[The Champions appear, re-mount the platform, and are introduced all over again.
Melia (intercepting her swain). Joe, 'ow are ye gittin' on? You don't look none the worse so fur; is it neelly over?
Joe (gruffly). Neelly over! why, we ain't begun yet—nor likely to wi' all this bloomin' palaverin'!
Melia. I do wish 'twas over—Kip a good 'art, Joe; don't let 'un go knockin' ye about!
Joe (with a slight decrease of confidence). Theer's a way to talk! I doan't reckon as 'ow he'll kill me, not in three rounds, I doan't, but if I'd a-know'd there'd be all this messin' about fust, I'd a—
[He goes inside gloomily.
"Theer they are! Oh my, what a pictur'!"Inside the Sparring Saloon.
The Spectators are waiting patiently around the ropes; the Professor is still on the platform, expatiating on the coming contest. Joe has found a friend whom he has entrusted with his hat and coat.
Joe (to the Friend). Jest kip a heye on these 'ere, will ye!
[He hands him a huge pair of highlows.
Prof. (calling in). Fur the larst time, come outside and show yerselves, all on yer!
The Friend. You got to go out agin, Joe, better putt on yer coat an' 'at, not to ketch cold!
Joe. Ah, and I'll 'ave to 'ave they bo-oots on agen, too. (He gets into his things in a great flurry, and hastens outside.) 'Tis enough to take th' 'art out of a man, thet 'tis!
[More exhortations from Proprietor, until the last Spectator has been induced to enter the Saloon, whereupon the Champions return, and the hangings at the entrance are finally drawn.
Prof. (acting as Timekeeper). Now then, all ready? (To Joe.) In you go—What are yer waitin' for? Never mind about takin' orf yer boots! Gentlemen, Batters o' Bermondsey is agoin' to fight three rounds with a volunteer, one o' your own men. Whatever you see between 'em (solemnly), pass no remarks! Time!
[Joe and "Batters o' Bermondsey" walk round each other and make a fumbling attempt to shake hands, after which Joe, while preparing to deliver a blow with extreme caution and deliberation, is surprised by a smart smack on his cheek, which makes him stagger; he recovers himself and prances down on Batters with a windmill action.
Batters (limping into his corner). 'Ere, I say, ole man—moind my tows—foight at yer right end!
Joe (apologetically). I didn't mean nothing unfair-like—I warnted fur to take off them 'ere boots—but I warn't let!
Batters. I'll let ye—fur 'taint no corpet slippers as you've got on, ole feller, I tell yer strite!
[Joe removes the offending boots.
Spectators (during the second round, which is fought with more spirit than science on Joe's part). Ah, Joe ain't no match for 'un—he let un 'ave it then, didn't he? My word! but it's "Go 'ome an' tell yer Mother, an' ax yer Uncle 'ow ye be" with 'un, pretty near every time!
Prof. (with affected rapture). Oh dear! Oh lor! What doins! Time! you two, afore ye kill one another! Now, Gentlemen, a good clap, to encourage 'em. I think you'll agree as the Volunteer is showin' you good sport; and, if you think him deservin' of a drink, p'raps one o' you will oblige with the loan of a 'at, which he'll now take round. (The hat is procured, and offered to Joe, who, however, prefers that the collection should be made by deputy.) Don't forgit 'im, Gentlemen! (Coppers pour into the hat, and the last round is fought; B. of B. ducking Joe's blows with great agility, and planting his own freely in various parts of Joe's anatomy.)
Spectators. 'E'll be knocked out in a minnit, 'e will!
