“Hey, lads, here’s owd Billy. How’s the clarinet, Billy?”
“Didst put a bit more waxey band round her, Billy?”
“Ay, lads, and she’s got a new reed.”
“Don’t split parson’s ears, Billy.”
“Hey, here’s Tommy Johnson and Johnny Buffam. Tak’ care, lads.”
“Where’s the brass?” shouted somebody.
“Hey,” cried another, “stop ’em—big goons aint allowed i’ the pooblic street.”
The two musicians hugged the French horn and ophecleide to their sides, and tried to smile.
“Don’t ’e blow paarson’s brains out wi’ that thing, Johnny Buffam.”
“Dost a make the dead rise wi’ it, Tommy, lad?” cried another.