"Yes, sir," replied the old man quickly. "Go on: I'll follow you."
The tired woman sank down upon the trampled grass beside the little boy; The Freak, hat in hand, struck an attitude; and the entertainment began.
I do not know how many songs he sang. He passed from one to another with amazing facility, discoursing between the verses upon topics well suited to the taste and comprehension of his audience. His songs were not new, and the tales that he told were neither true nor relevant; but they served their purpose. He uplifted his voice and carried us all off our feet. He conducted us over the whole of that field of Music Hall humour which is confined within the following limits:--
(1) Alcoholic excess.
(2) Personal deformity (e.g., Policemen's feet).
(3) Conjugal infelicity; with which is incorporated Mothers-in-law.
(4) Studies of insect life (e.g., Seaside lodgings).
(5) Exaggerated metaphor (e.g., "Giddy kipper").
He enlarged upon all these, and illuminated each. He was unspeakably vulgar, and irresistibly amusing. The crowd took him to their bosoms. They roared at his gags; they sang his choruses; they clamoured for more.
I shouted with the rest. This was the real Dicky Mainwaring--the unregenerate, unrestrained Freak of our undergraduate days--my friend given back to me in his right mind after a lamentable period of eclipse. My heart swelled foolishly.