Sympathiser. Exactly, my poor fellow, and what is your trade?
Loafer. Why, I’m a skate-fastener, I am; puts on parties’ skates for ’em,—and ’ere I am—not ’ad a job for months!
Truculent Ruffian (to Quiet Observer). Hunimployed?
Quiet Obs. Yes—at present.
T. R. Too many o’ them bloomin’ Coppers about, to my mind—I’d like to slug the lot—they’re the ruin of our bisness!
Quiet Obs. Ah, you’re right there!
Demagogue (to Police Sergeant). Now, don’t you interfere—that’s all I ask. I’ll speak to them—I have them thoroughly in hand just now, but, if you offer them the least opposition, I—(with much solemnity) well, I won’t be responsible for what happens. (He is allowed to address the multitude.) Friends, you are met here in this peaceful but imposing manner in the teeth of a brutal and overbearing Constabulary, to show the bloated Capitalists, who are now trembling behind their tills, that we mean to be taken seriously! Yes, in our squalor and our rags——
[Throws open frock-coat, and displays thick gold watch-chain.
Mob. Yah, pitch us over yer red slang! take orf that ere nobby coat! Harristocrat! Yah!
Dem. (complacently). It is true that I myself am not in absolute destitution.—But what of that, my friends? Can I not feel——