“Rolls!” said Bumpkin.
“The Master of the Rolls. I shouldn’t wonder if he aint got Archy to send em—don’t you be a fool. And another thing, Paganani’s going to play the farmyard on the fiddle to-night. Gemminey, ain’t that good! You hear the pigs squeak, and the bull roar, and the old cock crow, and the sow grunt, and the horse kick—”
“How the devil can thee hear a horse kick, unless he kicks zummat?”
“Well, he does,” said Horatio; “that’s just what he does do. Let’s go, I am sure you will like it.”
“It beant one o’ these ere playhouse pleaces, be it?”
“Lor bless you,” said Horatio, “there’s pews just the same as if you was in Church: and the singing’s beautiful.”
“No sarmon, I s’pooase.”
“Not on week nights, but I’ll tell you what there is instead: a chap climbs up to the top of a high pole and stands on his head for ten minutes.”
Mr. Bumpkin, although a man who never went out of an evening, could not resist the persuasions of his pale young friend. He had never been to any place of amusement, except the Old Bailey, since he had been in London;
although he had promised himself a treat to the Cattle Show, provided that came on, which was very likely, as it only wanted five months to it, before his case.