By this time the half price had come in, and the gallery presented an extraordinary appearance—a vast black heap slanting to the roof, dotted with faces, and striped with shirt sleeves.
When there was a clapping of hands the whole mass twinkled as if their dingy hands were so many rays of light.
The rails in front were adorned with the bonnets of the ladies, who did for comfort that which, in the dress circles of the West-end, is done for fashion.
These bonnets became marks for the boys at the back, who, seated upon the shoulders of their friends, or upon the spikes which crowned the partitions, played at pitch and toss with nut shells.
Once more greetings were exchanged between the gallery and pit, and sometimes family secrets were revealed.
“Then you aint brought Poll with you after all,” cried a voice from the pit.
“No,” answered a man in the gallery—“no, I aint. ’Cos why—she’s got the hump.”
“Oh! Jerusalem; that’s the time o’ day, is it?”
The comic singer, dressed as only a comic singer can dress, in a chocolate-coloured coat, a waistcoat with a large floral pattern, and pegtop trousers of the most ultra description, and a watch chain, as thick and massive as a ship’s cable, now made his appearance.
His nose was deeply tinged with red, and he had an old umbrella of the Mrs. Gamp species under his arm.