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  Fuller than a stingin' nettle. If a fellow wants to settle He needs solid care an' comfort, not the stuff the poet sings. Love an' all that talk, we reckon, is a silly sort of fake— What's a plain man wantin' further if his wife can wash an' bake ?

I ain't nothin' to the widow… Neither is Ben Murray though! An' he won't find me unwillin' if he wants a little go. I'm not over-keen on fightin'; but his boastin' an' his skitin' Puts my back up; an' his sneerin' often gets down pretty low. Course, the widow's never mentioned—that's to say, by name, outright; But I know what's gnawin' at him when I hear he's talkin' fight.

Talkin' fight an' actin' ugly: not reel-earnest, half an' half— Shootin' sneers into his smilin', slingin' spite into his chaff. Tho' a fight I'm never shirkin', when I'm with the fellows, workin', I can give him good as he does, an' just take it with a laugh. But at evenin' when I'm broodin', I chew over all the lot. Till his jokes swell into insults an' his hintin' makes me hot.

He can have it—if he wants it! He won't be too long denied! But I've heard he's mentioned fivers — wants to fight five pounds a side. If I'm licked, of course, I lose it; an' that fool will go an' booze it: