STOPPING AT A WATERING PLACE
Sarah. Al-bert! 'Enery! Your father's bin down 'ere once after you. You'll ketch it!
Albert (sotto voce). Not till father ketches us, we shan't. Keep still, 'Enery—we're all right under 'ere!
Sarah (more diplomatically). 'Enery! Albert! Father's bin and left a 'ap'ny apiece for yer. Ain't yer comin' up for it? If yer don't want it, why, stay where you are, that's all!
Albert (to 'Enery). I knoo we 'adn't done nothin'. An' I'm goin' up to git that 'ap'ny, I am.
'Enery. So 'm I.
[They emerge, and ascend the steps—to be pounced upon immediately by the ingenious Sarah.
Sarah. 'Ap'ny, indeed! You won't git no 'apence 'ere, I can tell yer—so jest you come along 'ome with me!
[Exeunt Albert and 'Enery, in captivity, as the Niggers enter the circle.
Bones. We shall commence this afternoon by 'olding our Grand Annual Weekly Singing Competition, for the Discouragement of Youthful Talent. Now then, which is the little gal to step out first and git a medal? (The Children giggle, but remain seated.) Not one? Now I arsk you—What is the use o' me comin' 'ere throwin' away thousands and thousands of pounds on golden medals, if you won't take the trouble to stand up and sing for them? Oh, you'll make me so wild, I shall begin spittin' 'alf-sovereigns directly—I know I shall! (A little Girl in a sun-bonnet comes forward.) Ah, 'ere's a young lady who's bustin' with melody, I can see. Your name, my dear? Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the pleasure to announce that Miss Connie Cockle will now appear. Don't curtsey till the Orchestra gives the chord. (Chord from the harmonium—the Child advances, and curtsies with much aplomb.) Oh, lor! call that a curtsey—that's a cramp, that is! Do it all over again! (The Child obeys, disconcerted.) That's worse! I can see the s'rimps blushin' for yer inside their paper bags! Now see Me do it. (Bones executes a caricature of a curtsey, which the little Girl copies with terrible fidelity.) That's ladylike—that's genteel. Now sing out! (The Child sings the first verse of a popular music-hall song, in a squeaky little voice.) Talk about nightingales! Come 'ere, and receive the reward for extinguished incapacity. On your knees! (The little Girl kneels before him while a tin medal is fastened upon her frock.) Rise, Sir Connie Cockle! Oh, you lucky girl!
[The Child returns, swelling with triumph, to her companions, several of whom come out, and go through the same performance, with more or less squeakiness and self-possession.
