"Ill-advised," said the big man, shaking his head; "very ill-advised."
"Good lesson for her," remarked Albert. "These shows teach the ugly ones to know their place. Improve the breed these shows do—same as 'orse-racing." And having shouted "Ginger!" again, he added, "Bandy!"
"Ain't it wicked for a woman to have such an imperence?" cried Albert's girl, joining in the yell as the candidate was marched off to the side of the losers.
"Isn't this all a little personal?" Mr. Clarkson protested; "a trifle—what should I say?—Oriental, perhaps?"
"She don't know how hidjus she is," the big man explained. "No female don't."
"Nor no man neither, I should 'ope!" said Albert's girl, and wriggling out of the encircling arm, she suddenly sprang up, put her hat straight, and forced her way towards the stage.
"Now the fat's on!" observed the big man, with a foreboding sigh.
"You may pull her 'ead off," Albert answered resignedly. "There ain't no 'oldin' of her."
"Dangerous, very dangerous!" whispered the big man to Mr. Clarkson. "A terror is Albert when she's beat! Bloodshed frequent outside! She's always beat—always starts, and always beat."
"Celtic, I suppose," Mr. Clarkson observed.