115


My foreign readers had the account of one match inflicted

upon them, which ran somewhat as follows :


A match arranged between “ Costermonger Joe ” of

Bricklane, and “ hong Bill” of Kingslaud, is announced by the

landlord of the “ Cock and Bottle ” of Shoreditch, to come off,

say, on Saturday week.


The “ fraternity ” know the combatants “ Shoreditch'

Bobby ” and the “ Kingsland Roarer” to be “ stunners ; ” all love

a good match, especially when it becomes known that the winner

will “stand” a gallon or two of beer to his friends who grace the

meeting with their presence. The stakes of a sovereign each

are already handed over to the genial host, and the time for the

finches to be “ on the nail ” is fixed for eight p.m. precisely.


At last the long expected hour approaches. The bar is

full, and the parlour nearly so. There are a few women enjoying

their “quarterns,” some carrying the inevitable bab}q and a

crowd of men whose short, black pipes are not likely to get cold

again that evening. Many of them are holding one or two

square parcels wwapped in coloured handkerchiefs, from which

issue the songs of various birds—Linnets, Goldfinches, Mules

and Chaffinches. Possibly some more singing contests are now

being fixed, between the proud possessors of “ stars.”


In the parlour all the gas-jets are lighted, but have some

trouble to penetrate the fumes of tobacco, beer, etc. At last the

contesting parties enter, each dressed in his Sunday best. The

host conducts them through the welcoming crowd to two^

reserved tables and attends personally to the wants of the

honoured guests. Then, with much noise and unnecessary

reiteration, order is requested. Naturally, the various songsters

before mentioned, excited by the general hubbub, have been

noisier than ever, and are now relegated to darkness in another

room to quiet them : only the two principals remain, closely

covered up.


The two markers take their places, and as the clock strikes

the two cages are uncovered and hung up. The battlers look

around for a moment, shake their plumage, whet their beaks and

one may take a grain of seed, but before it is cracked he hears a

familiar sound uttered by his opponent. Immediately he replies by

a full strophe of his song, to which the other answers with fuller

power. Before each marker is already a stroke of his chalk, and

now the combat is fairly “started.” The chalks are busily

employed to mark each properly delivered strophe, and keep

pace with each other for a time, until “ Bobby ” takes it into his

head to betake himself to the food trough.



