“What?”
“House expected to be full, sar—sure to sell it again, sar.”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“The play, sar—Fitzflam, sar!—there’s the bill, sar, and (bell rings) there’s the bell, sar. Coming.” (Exit Waiter.)
The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that insane waiter’s submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks, and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the next was to look at the bill, and there he saw—“horror of horrors!”—the name, “the bright ancestral name”—the name he bore, bursting forth in all the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!
Anger, rage, and indignation, like so many candidates for the exalted mutton on a greased pole, rushed tumultuously over each other’s heads, each anxious to gain the “ascendant” in the bosom of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam. To reduce a six-and-ninepenny gossamer to the fac-simile of a bereaved muffin in mourning by one vigorous blow wherewith he secured it on his head, grasp his ample cane and three half-sucked oranges (in case it should come to pelting), and rush to the theatre, was the work of just twelve minutes and a half. In another brief moment, payment having been tendered and accepted, Fitzflam was in the boxes, ready to expose the swindle and the swindler!
The first act was over, and the audience were discussing the merits of the supposed Roscius.
“He is a sweet young man,” said a simpering damsel to a red-headed Lothario, with just brains enough to be jealous, and spirit enough to damn the player.
“I don’t see it,” responded he of the Rufusian locks.
“Such dear legs!”