The polygamous draper but echoed the general sentiment when he condemned the vulgarity of the masses.
The British workman had his whole contempt—(thus he delivered himself)—the British workman did as little as he could, and got a ridiculously high wage that was so much outside his needs that he was always more or less drunk—hiccup—gen’rally more—hiccup—in the public-house—hiccup hiccup—and the—gin-palace. What did these gorgeous and brightly illuminated drinking-saloons that shone in the darkness of the darkest street mean but the widespread overpayment of the working-man and his consequently seeking in these costly pleasure-houses of vice, when his so-called day’s work was done, his illicit—hiccup—illicit joys.
Long and sustained applause.
“Hee-haw!” cooed the Major. “Too-ra-loora-lay.”
The draper turned upon him:
“Yer can’t get over it, sir—hiccup—there it is.” He swept his hand towards the landlord: “There’s your workman—hiccup—and there’s your public-house”—he swept his hand to the Major.
The Major rapped upon the table:
“Order! order!” cried he—“the chairman is not a public-house.”
He giggled, and titters turned to laughter.
The erotic draper sat down: