Lambeth Larrikin (in a pasteboard "pickelhaube," and a false nose, thoughtfully, to Battersea Bill, who is wearing an old grey chimney-pot hat, with the brim uppermost, and a tow wig, as they contemplate a party of Botocudo natives). Rum the sights these 'ere savidges make o' theirselves, ain't it, Bill?
Batt. Bill (more thoughtfully). Yer right—but I dessay if you and me 'ad been born among that lot, we shouldn't care 'ow we looked!
Vauxhall Voilet (who has exchanged headgear with Chelsea Chorley—with dismal results). They are cures, those blackies! Why, yer carn't 'ardly tell the men from the wimmin! I expect this lot'll be 'aving a beanfeast. See, they're plyin' their myusic.
"RUM THE SIGHTS THESE 'ERE SAVIDGES MAKE O' THEIRSELVES."
Chelsea Chorley. Good job we can't 'ear 'em. They say as niggers' music is somethink downright horful. Give us "Hi-tiddly-hi" on that mouth-orgin o' yours, will yer?
[Vauxhall Voilet obliges on that instrument; every one in the neighbourhood begins to jig mechanically; exeunt party, dancing.
A Pimply Youth. "Hopium-eater from Java." That's the stuff they gits as stoopid as biled howls on—it's about time we went and did another beer. [They retire for that purpose.
DURING THE FIREWORKS.