“Yes, yes, I know,” cried Sim; “but they don’t. It’s all the same to them. Yes, mates, a brutal mummidom, and a holygartchy, and as I was a saying, our fellow sittyzens in London have been a wackin o’ ’em oop. They’ve gone arm in arm, in their horny-handed strength, like brave sons of tyle, with gentlemen playing their bands o’ music.”
“Hear, hear!”
“And colours flying—”
“Hear, hear!” and a great deal of mug rattling on the table.
“And made Pall Mall—Pall Mall—Pall Mall—”
“Hear, hear!”
“Go on,” whispered Barker, “that’s it—echo to their warlike tread.”
“Echo to the warlike tread o’ their heavy boots,” cried Sim, banging his hand down upon the table.
“Hear, hear!”
“Till the bloated holygarchs a sitting in theer bloated palluses abloating theer sens.”