Mrs. M. He will go, Mr. BUDKIN! He's gone up every night the 'Ipnotiser's been here, and says he feels it's going to do him good. So this evening I said I'd come in too, and judge for myself. What good he expects to get, laying there like a damp dishclout, I don't know!
[Meanwhile the Hypnotist has borrowed a silver-handled umbrella from the audience, and thrust it before the faces of one or two loutish-looking youths, who immediately begin to squint horribly and follow the silver-top with their noses, till they knock their heads together.
Mr. Budkin (to Mrs. MIDGELLY). He's going to give your husband a turn of it now.
[The umbrella-handle is applied to Mr. M., a feeble-looking little man with a sandy top-knot; he grovels after the silver-top when it is depressed, and makes futile attempts to clamber up the umbrella after it when it is held aloft.
Mrs. M. (severely). I haven't patience to look at him. A Kitten 'ud have had more sense!
The Hyp. (calling up one of the heavy youths). Can you whistle, Sir? Yes? Then whistle something. (The Youth whistles a popular air in a lugubrious tone.) Now you can't whistle—try. (The Youth tries—and produces nothing but a close imitation of an air-cushion that is being unscrewed.) Now, if I were not to wake him up, this young gentleman's friends would never enjoy the benefit of his whistle again!
Voice from a Back Row. Don't wake him, Guv'nor, we can bear it!
Hyp. (after restoring the lost talent, and calling up another Youth, somewhat smartly attired). Now, Sir, what do you drink?
The Youth (with a sleepy candour). Beer when I can get 'old of it.
A Friend of his in Audience. JIM's 'aving a lark with him—he said as 'ow he meant to kid him like—he ain't 'ipnotised, bless yer!