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!"

"_Dear_ legs--_duck_ legs you mean, miss!"

"And _such_ a voice!"

"Voice! I'll holler with him for all he's worth."

"Ha' done, do!"