BASHVILLE [_reading_]. "At noon to-day, unknown to the police, Within a thousand miles of Wormwood Scrubbs, Th' Australian Champion and his challenger, The Flying Dutchman, formerly engaged I' the mercantile marine, fought to a finish.

Lord Worthington, the well-known sporting peer Acted as referee."

LYDIA. Lord Worthington!

BASHVILLE. "The bold Ned Skene revisited the ropes To hold the bottle for his quondam novice; Whilst in the seaman's corner were a.s.sembled Professor Palmer and the Chelsea Sn.o.b.

Mellish, whose epigastrium has been hurt, 'Tis said, by accident at Wiltstoken, Looked none the worse in the Australian's corner.

The Flying Dutchman wore the Union Jack: His colors freely sold amid the crowd; But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue----"

LYDIA. _Whose_, did you say?

BASHVILLE. Cashel's, my lady.

LYDIA. Lucian: Your hand--a chair--

BASHVILLE. Madam: you're ill.

LYDIA. Proceed.

What you have read I do not understand; Yet I will hear it through. Proceed.

LUCIAN. Proceed.

BASHVILLE. "But Cashel's well-known spot of white on blue Was fairly rushed for. Time was called at twelve, When, with a smile of confidence upon His ocean-beaten mug----"

LYDIA. His mug?

LUCIAN [_explaining_]. His face.

BASHVILLE [_continuing_]. "The Dutchman came undaunted to the scratch, But found the champion there already. Both Most heartily shook hands, amid the cheers Of their encouraged backers. Two to one Was offered on the Melbourne nonpareil; And soon, so fit the Flying Dutchman seemed, Found takers everywhere. No time was lost In getting to the business of the day.

The Dutchman led at once, and seemed to land On Byron's dicebox; but the seaman's reach, Too short for execution at long shots, Did not get fairly home upon the ivory; And Byron had the best of the exchange."

LYDIA. I do not understand. What were they doing?

LUCIAN. Fighting with naked fists.

LYDIA. Oh, horrible!

I'll hear no more. Or stay: how did it end?

Was Cashel hurt?

LUCIAN [_to_ BASHVILLE]. Skip to the final round.

BASHVILLE. "Round Three: the rumors that had gone about Of a breakdown in Byron's recent training Seemed quite confirmed. Upon the call of time He rose, and, looking anything but cheerful, Proclaimed with every breath Bellows to Mend.

At this point six to one was freely offered Upon the Dutchman; and Lord Worthington Plunged at this figure till he stood to lose A fortune should the Dutchman, as seemed certain, Take down the number of the Panley boy.

The Dutchman, glutton as we know he is, Seemed this time likely to go hungry. Cashel Was clearly groggy as he slipped the sailor, Who, not to be denied, followed him up, Forcing the fighting mid tremendous cheers."

LYDIA. Oh stop--no more--or tell the worst at once.

I'll be revenged. Bashville: call the police.

This brutal sailor shall be made to know There's law in England.

LUCIAN. Do not interrupt him: Mine ears are thirsting. Finish, man. What next?

BASHVILLE. "Forty to one, the Dutchman's friends exclaimed.

Done, said Lord Worthington, who shewed himself A sportsman every inch. Barely the bet Was booked, when, at the reeling champion's jaw The sailor, bent on winning out of hand, Sent in his right. The issue seemed a cert, When Cashel, ducking smartly to his left, Cross-countered like a hundredweight of brick----"

LUCIAN. Death and d.a.m.nation!

LYDIA. Oh, what does it mean?

BASHVILLE. "The Dutchman went to gra.s.s, a beaten man."

LYDIA. Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah! Oh, well done, Cashel!

BASHVILLE. "A scene of indescribable excitement Ensued; for it was now quite evident That Byron's grogginess had all along Been feigned to make the market for his backers.

We trust this sample of colonial smartness Will not find imitators on this side.

The losers settled up like gentlemen; But many felt that Byron shewed bad taste In taking old Ned Skene upon his back, And, with Bob Mellish tucked beneath his oxter, Sprinting a hundred yards to show the crowd The perfect pink of his condition"--[_a knock_].

LYDIA [_turning pale_]. Bashville Didst hear? A knock.

BASHVILLE. Madam: 'tis Byron's knock.

Shall I admit him?

LUCIAN. Reeking from the ring!

Oh, monstrous! Say you're out.

LYDIA. Send him away.

I will not see the wretch. How dare he keep Secrets from ME? I'll punish him. Pray say I'm not at home. [BASHVILLE _turns to go_.] Yet stay. I am afraid He will not come again.

LUCIAN. A consummation Devoutly to be wished by any lady.

Pray, do you _wish_ this man to come again?

LYDIA. No, Lucian. He hath used me very ill.

He should have told me. I will ne'er forgive him.

Say, Not at home.

BASHVILLE. Yes, madam. [_Exit._

LYDIA. Stay--

LUCIAN [_stopping her_]. No, Lydia: You shall not countermand that proper order.

Oh, would you cast the treasure of your mind, The thousands at your bank, and, above all, Your una.s.sailable social position Before this soulless ma.s.s of beef and brawn?

LYDIA. Nay, coz: you're prejudiced.

CASHEL [_without_]. Liar and slave!

LYDIA. What words were those?

LUCIAN. The man is drunk with slaughter.

_Enter_ BASHVILLE _running: he shuts the door and locks it_.