“Look at his owd umbrella,” cried another.
“Why don’t ta put th’ umbrella up?” cried another voice, “it’s going to ree-an next week.”
Here there was another roar of laughter.
“Look at his leather breeches.”
“Say, Joey, wast ta sewed in ’em when they weer made?”
“Ay, lad, they weer made on him i’ the year one, and niver been off since.”
“Mind yon goon don’t go off,” cried one of the chief jokers, as the boy came by bearing Joey’s bassoon.
“Is she loaded, Joey?”
“Ay, lad, he rams her full wi’ kitchen poker,” cried another.
Joey South escaped into the porch, grinning angrily, for a fresh minstrel appeared in the shape of “Owd Billy Stocks” with his clarionet.