_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. [_Loud applause, which was instantly suppressed._ _Mr. Pheasant_ (_sternly_).> This Court is not a Prize-Ring. * * * * * "A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE" AT THE AVENUE. [Illustration: Alexander the Less and the preux Chevalier.]