_
_Jimmy_. Father, the gentleman behind is a pinching of my legs!
_Jimmy's Father._ Will you stop pinching my little boy's legs! He
ain't doing you no 'arm--is he?
_The Pinching Pittite_. Let him sit down, then!
_Jimmy's Father._ Let the lady take her 'at off!
_Murmurs behind._ Order, there! Set down! Put that boy down! Take orf
that 'at! Silence in front, there! Turn 'em out! Shame!... &c., &c.
_The Husband of the O. of the H._ (_in a whisper to his Wife_). Take
off the blessed 'at, and have done with it, do!
_The O. of the H._ What--_now_? I'd sooner _die_ in the 'at!
[_An Attendant is called._
_The Attendant._ Order, there, Gentlemen, please--unless you want to
get turned out! No standing allowed on the seats--you're disturbing
the performance 'ere, you know!
[_JIMMY is made to sit down, and weeps silently; the hubbub
gradually subsides--and The Owner of the Hat triumphs--for
the moment._
_Jimmy's Mother._ Never mind, my boy, you shall have Mother's seat in
a minute. I dessay, if all was known, the lady 'as reasons for keeping
her 'at on, pore thing!
_The Father._ Ah, I never thought o' that. So she may. Very likely her
'at won't _come_ off--not without her _'air!_
_The Mother.
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