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