“What the devil are you talking about?”

“The play, sar—­Fitzflam, sar!—­there’s the bill, sar, and (bell rings) there’s the bell, sar.  Coming.” (Exit Waiter.)

The first thing that suggested itself to the mind of Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam was the absolute necessity of insisting upon that insane waiter’s submitting to the total loss of his well-greased locks, and enveloping his outward man in an extra-strong strait-waistcoat; the next was to look at the bill, and there he saw—­“horror of horrors!”—­the name, “the bright ancestral name”—­the name he bore, bursting forth in all the reckless impudence of the largest type and the reddest vermilion!

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!”

“I shan’t:  Fitzflam’s—­an—­umbug!”

“Sir!” exclaimed Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitz of “that ilk.”

“And Sir to you!” retorted “the child of earth with the golden hair.”

“I suppose I’m a right to speak my mind of that or any other chap I pays to laugh at!”

“It’s a tragedy, James.”

“All the funnier when sich as him comes to play in them.”

“Hush! the curtain’s up.”—­So it was; and “Bravo! bravo!” shouted the ladies, and “Hurrah!” shouted the gentlemen.  Never had Mr. Hannibal Fitzflummery Fitzflam seen such wretched acting, or heard such enthusiastic applause.  Round followed round, until, worked up to frenzy at the libel upon his name, and, as he thought, his art, he vociferously exclaimed, “Ladies and gentlemen, that man’s a d—­d impostor! ("Turn him out! throw him over! break his neck!” shouted the gods.  “Shame shame!” called the boxes.  “You’re drunk,” exclaimed the pit to a man.) I repeat that man is—­("Take that!”—­an apple in Fitzflam’s eye.) I say he is another ("There it is!”—­in his other eye) person altogether—­a—­("Boxkeeper!”) Nothing of the sort; a—­("Constable!”) I’ll take—­("Take that fellow out!”) Allow me to be—­("Off! off!”) I am—­("’Out! out!”) Let me request.—­("Order! order!—­hiss! hiss!—­oh! oh!—­ah! ah!—­phit! phit!—­Booh!—­booh!—­wooh!—­oh!—­ah!")”