First M. Do? oh, mind the bloomin' staircase, and chuck out them as don' beyave themselves.
A Restless Lady (to her husband). Harry, I don't like this place at all. I'm sure we could see better somewhere else. Do let's try and squeeze in somewhere lower down.... No, this is worse—that horrid tobacco! Suppose we cross over to the Palace? [They do so.
A Policeman. Too late to cross now, Sir—go back, please.
[They go back and take up a position in front of the crowd on the curbstone.
The R. L. There, we shall see beautifully here, Harry.
A Crusty Matron (talking at the R. L. and her husband). Well, I'm sure, some persons have got a cheek, coming in at the last minnit and standing in front of those that have stood here hours—that's lady-like, I don't think! Nor yet, I didn't come here to have my eye poked out by other parties' pairosols.
[Continues in this strain until the R. L. can stand it no longer, and urges her husband to depart.
Chorus of Policemen. Pass along there, please, one way or the other—keep moving there, Sir.
The R. L. But where are we to go—we must stand somewhere?
A Policeman. Can't stand anywhere 'ere, Mum.