oo’ll gimme arf a crown for it? (To a Genteel Onlooker, with an eyeglass, who has made an audible comment) “See ’ow it’s done!” So yer orter, with a glazier’s shop where yer eye orter be!  Well, if anyone had ’a told me I should stand ’ere, on Boat-Race Day too, orferin’ six bob for arf a crown, and no one with the ordinary pluck an’ straightforwardness to take me at my word, I’d have suspected that man of tellin’ me a untruth! (To a simple-looking spectator.) Will you ’old this purse for me?  Yer will?  Well.  I like the manly way yer speak up! (Here the Gent.  Onl., observing a seedy man slinking about outside, warns the company to “mind their pockets”—­which excites the Purse-seller’s just indignation.) “Ere!—­(to the G.O.) you take your ’ook!  I’ve ‘ad enough o’ you.  I ‘ave.  You’re a bloomin’ sight too officious, you are!  Not much in your pockets to mind—­’cept the key o’ the street, and a ticket o’ leave, I’ll lay!  If you carn’t beyave as a Gentleman among Gentlemen, go ’ome to where you ’ad your ’air cut last—­to Pentonville! (The G.O. retires.) There, we shall get along better without ’im.  ‘Ow long are you goin’ to keep me ’ere?  Upon my word an’ honour, it’s enough to sicken a man to see what the world’s come to!  Where’s yer courage?  Where’s yer own common sense?  Where’s your faith in ’umin nature?  What do yer expect? (Scathingly.) Want me to wrop it up in a porcel, and send it ‘ome for yer?  Is that what yer waitin’ for!  Dammy, if this goes on, I shall git wild, and take and give the bloomin’ purse a bath! (The Simple Spectator feels in his pockets—­evidently for a half-crown.) ’Ere, you look more intelligent than the rest—­I’ll try yer jest this once.  Jest to show yer don’t know me, and—­(Shouts of “They’re off!  They’re coming!” from the bank; the Purse-seller’s audience suddenly melts away, leaving him alone with the Seedy Slinker.) ’Ere, JIM, we may as well turn it up.  ’Ere come them blanky boats!

A Juvenile Plunger (with rather a complicated book on the event).  If Oxford wins, I’ve got ter git a penny out of ’im, and if Kimebridge wins, you’ve got ter git a penny outer me!

Crowd (as the Crews flash by).  Go it, Oxford!  Ox—­ford!  No, Kimebridge!  Well rowed, Kimebridge!...  Oxford wins!  No, it don’t. I’ll lay it don’t!  Splendid rycin’.  Which on ’em was Oxford?  The inside one.  No, it worn’t—­ they was outside.  Well, Oxford was leadin’, anyway!...  There, that’s all over till next year!  Not much to come out for, either—­on’y just see ’em for a second or so.  Oh, I come out for the lark of it, I do....  There goes the pidgins orf....  We shan’t be long knowin’ now....  ’Ere’s the Press Boat comin’ back....  There, wot did I tell yer, now?  Well, they didn’t orter ha’ won. that’s all—­the others was the best crew....  ’Ere they are, all together on the launch, d’ye see?  Seem friendly enough, too, considerin’, torkin’ to each other and all.  Lor, they wouldn’t bear no malice now it’s over!