RUSS.—Very little of that ’ere commodity is ever brought into it, my lud.
PUNCH.—And, in short, that you and your colleagues’ hands have been frequently found in the pockets of your audience.
RUSS.—Only in a professional way, my lud—strictly professional.
PUNCH.—But the most serious charge of all is that, on a recent occasion, when the audience hissed your performances, you put out the lights, let in the swell-mob, and raised a cry of “No Corn Laws.”
RUSS.—Why, my lud, on that p’int I admit there was a slight row.
PUNCH.—Enough, sir. The court considers you have grossly misconducted yourself, and refuses to grant you license to perform.
MEL.—But, my lord, I protest I did nothing.
PUNCH.—So everybody says, sir. You are therefore unfit to have the management of (next to my own) the greatest theatre in the world. You may retire.
MEL. (to RUSS.)—Oh! Johnny, this is your work—with your confounded hanky-panky.
RUSS.—No—’twas you that did it; we have been ruined by your laziness. What is to become of us now?