But Johnson of St. Thomas, No craven droopings knew; Up to the frowning knocker, With tiger spring he flew; And mirthful e’en in danger, Said, with a joyous grin, “Walk up!――the exhibition’s just A-going to begin!” Then thrust he through the knocker His stick of British oak; But Brown of Charing, from the throng, Quoting a Social Progress song, Thus, with a purpose, spoke: “Just wait a little longer, There’s work for me as well; You from its clamps the knocker tear―― I from the door, your fame to share, Will please to wring the bell.” But of that gang the stoutest Felt their hearts sink to see In progress what, in planning, Had merely seem’d a “spree;” And from the dread adventure, So rashly underta’en, All shrank, like boys who, ere they strip, Intend to plunge o’er head and hip In Father Thames, but when they dip In his cold flood a toe-nail’s tip, Scared――dress themselves again. But meanwhile Jones and Simpson, And Blatherwick have tried, In vain, to keep the watchman Round on the other side. “Run, Davis! run, Carruthers!” Loud cried the students all; “Slope! and to him who hindmost lags, The usual fate befal!” Back darted Brown of Charing, Letting the bell-pull go, With startling clang, and all the gang Retreated from the foe; But when they saw brave Johnson Still tugging at the door, Under the very watchman’s nose, They would have turn’d once more. But, with a crash like thunder (Such thunder as one hears At minor theatres, when the ghost Or maniac appears), Round on its well-used pivot The watchman’s rattle sprung; The band set up a frighten’d cry, And (Jones in front) began to fly, E’en Brown, averse to saying die, Scorn’d not to cut and run. Yet, like himself in practice (“Teeth drawn for half-a-crown,” Stands graven on his bus’ness card), The furious Johnson struggled hard To wrench the knocker down. And with Herculean prowess, At length perform’d the feat; And oaken splint, and nut and screw, With bits of paint and dried-up glue, Flew scatter’d o’er the street. With one huge stride he bounded Adown the steps in glee, Waving his hard-earned prize on high, But stopp’d――he was compell’d to――by Policeman “Twenty-three.” “Off with him!” cried the watchman, With a smile on his pale face; “Now blow me!” “Twenty-three” exclaimed; “This here’s a Brixton case.” Round turn’d he somewhat stagger’d, These myrmidons to see, But he took the watchman’s measure, And the weight of “Twenty-three.” And ere “Robinson” you’d summon He had laid the former low, By tripping up his heels, and dealt To “Twenty-three” (above the belt) A firm left handed blow.