reeches
and boots contrasting with the gipsy's coarse blue shirt and dirty green
velveteen breeches and leather gaiters. Joe is evidently turning up his
nose at the other, and half insulted at having to break his head.

The gipsy is a tough, active fellow, but not very skilful with his
weapon, so that Joe's weight and strength tell in a minute; he is too
heavy metal for him. Whack, whack, whack, come his blows, breaking down
the gipsy's guard, and threatening to reach his head every moment. There
it is at last. "Blood, blood!" shout the spectators, as a thin stream
oozes out slowly from the roots of his hair, and the umpire calls to
them to stop. The gipsy scowls at Joe under his brows in no pleasant
manner, while Master Joe swaggers about, and makes attitudes, and thinks
himself, and shows that he thinks himself, the greatest man in the
field.

Then follow several stout sets-to between the other candidates for the
new hat, and at last come the shepherd and Willum Smith. This is the
crack set-to of the day. They are both in famous wind, and there is no
crying "hold." The shepherd is an old hand, and up to all the dodges. He
tries them one after another, and very nearly gets at Willum's head
by coming in near, and playing over his guard at the half-stick; but
somehow Willum blunders through, catching the stick on his shoulders,
neck, sides, every now and then, anywhere but on his head, and his
returns are heavy and straight, and he is the youngest gamester and a
favourite in the parish, and his gallant stand brings down shouts and
cheers, and the knowing ones think he'll win if he keeps steady; and
Tom, on the groom's shoulder, holds his hands together, and can hardly
breathe for excitement.

Alas for Willum! His sweetheart, getting tired of female companionship,
has been hunting the booths to see where he can have got to, and now
catches sight of him on the stage in full combat. She flushes and turns
pale; her old aunt catches hold of her, saying, "Bless 'ee, child,
doan't 'ee go a'nigst it;" but she breaks away and runs towards the
stage calling his name. Willum keeps up his guard stoutly, but glances
for a moment towards the voice. No guard will do it, Willum, without the
eye. The shepherd steps round and strikes, and the point of his stick
just grazes Willum's forehead, fetching off the skin, and the blood
flows, and the umpire cries, "Hold!" and poor Willum's chance is up for
the day. But he takes it very well, a