They passed through the entrance and gained the hall. Miss Stanbridge paid for three seats, and they were shown into one of the private boxes.
The house was a very large one, and Alf as he gazed around was lost in wonderment at its gigantic proportions. He had never been in an establishment of this description.
The pit and gallery were crammed with people, those of the lower class predominating. Some of the men were in their shirt sleeves, many of the women carried in their arms babies with bald heads and sturdy lungs; many coster boys were also present, who were overflowing with merriment and wit, while the atmosphere reeked with the mingled fragrance of orange peel, stale ginger beer, and corduroys.
As the boy was gazing round the house the audience were beginning to grow impatient and personal.
Having discovered a gentleman in full dress in one of the boxes, a lubberly lad called out in the voice of a stentor.
“Three cheers for the bloke in white kids!”
This was responded to and assisted with cat calls and hootings as they observed the discomfiture of the used-up Belgravian, who had wandered among these barbarians to receive amusement, not to contribute to it.
This was followed by shrill whistling from the gods above, the stamping of feet, and conversation carried on by some of the occupants of the pit with those in the gallery. The noise was perplexing and almost deafening.
“Now, then, you catgut-scrapers,” exclaimed a voice, “tune up. If we aint a goin’ to have any acting to-night, play ‘God Save the Queen,’ and let’s go home.”
A costermonger in the gallery began to chant a well-known music-hall ditty, which was at this time enjoying an extensive share of popularity; numbers of men and boys joined furiously and tunelessly in the chorus, and this, together with the stamping of the feet of those who were endeavouring to keep time to the melody—if such a term can be justly applied to it—served to amuse the “gods,” as they are called, most immensely.