And Lavengro alone could have fully described that Homeric contest. There was no hesitancy or half-heartedness about it. They pounded one another whenever they got the chance, and sent the blows straight from the shoulder. Thrice was Dan toppled over like a ninepin, and twice did Tim measure his length on the grassy sward. If one had the greater weight, the other had the quicker eye. Tim's leg-of-mutton fists did terrific damage when they got home on Dan's body, but for the most part they descended innocuously, so dexterously did the latter guard. At first they smiled, but soon their blood warmed and their faces set. Strength and agility were fairly matched, so that though the battle raged for close on an hour, each managed to hold his own. Dan could make no impression on the elephantine frame of Tim, and the tinker grew weary of trying to hit a flash of lightning in the person of the vagrant. It was as pretty a sight as a man might see in a day's walk, but so equal were both boxers that the contest seemed likely to last till sunset. The account of such a combat should roll off the tongue in blank verse or leaping hexameter, and be chanted by some noble minstrel. Nothing meaner can suffice! It is impossible to play an oratorio on a penny whistle. At length, when Dan had a bleeding nose and Tim a swelling eye, they threw down their gloves by mutual consent and declared it a drawn battle. On such result they shook hands like the manly pair they were, and Tim vented his emotion in a mighty oath which here need only be paraphrased. "By the ghost of Black Ben the Bruiser," said he, clapping his friendly antagonist on the shoulder, "you're a man, you are! None other shall have her, I swear." "Have whom?" asked Dan, bathing his crimsoned nose in the bucket. "Never you mind, rye," replied Tim, ambiguously; "that's neither here nor there. It might be Mother Jericho, for all you know." Not particularly attentive to this speech, Dan went on splashing up the ice-cold water; and Tim, with his black beard clutched in one begrimed hand, sat looking steadily at him. The vagrant seemed to find favour in his eyes, for during his scrutiny he grunted once or twice as though satisfied. It was evidently something more than personal prowess that recommended Dan to the gipsy giant. What it was must remain locked up in Tim's brain for the present. "Why didn't Mother Jericho come with you, Tim?" "She's got the rheumatism, rye, and sits in her tent squeaking like a trapped rabbit. 'Twas she who told me to look ye up." "Wanted to know the result of her prophecy, I suppose?" "Ay, ay! She told your fortune, did she? A good un for charming brass out of pockets, she is. Maybe she promised ye a wench, lad?" "That she did. Two wenches! I met one this morning." "Did ye, now? And where, my brave rye?" "'Joy comes up through the Gates of Dawn,'" hummed Dan, wiping his face.