WEST-BORN
Alf. P'raps you think I can't. But, if I was to go upon the 'Alls now, I should make my fortune in no time! Loo's 'eard me when I've been in form, and she'll tell you——
Miss Serge. Well, I will say there's many a professional might learn a lesson from Alf—whether Mr. Perkins believes it or not.
[Cuttingly, to "Chorley."
Chorley. Now reelly, Miss Loo, don't come down on a feller like that. I want to see him do you credit, that's all, and he couldn't 'ave a better opportunity to distinguish himself—now could he?
Miss Serge. I'm not preventing him. But I don't know—these Niggers keep themselves very select, and they might object to it.
Alf. I'll soon square them. You keep your eye on me, and I'll make things a bit livelier!
[He enters the circle.
Miss Serge (admiringly). He has got a cheek, I must say! Look at him, dancing there along with those two Niggers—they don't hardly know what to make of him yet!
Chorley. Do you notice how they keep kicking him beyind on the sly like? I wonder he puts up with it!
Miss S. He'll be even with them presently—you see if he isn't.
[Alf attempts to twirl a tambourine on his finger, and lets it fall; derision from audience; Bones pats him on the head and takes the tambourine away—at which Alf only smiles feebly.
Chorley. It's a pity he gets so 'ot dancing, and he don't seem to keep in step with the others.
Miss S. (secretly disappointed). He isn't used to doing the double-shuffle on sand, that's all.
The Conductor. Bones, I observe we have a recent addition to our company. Perhaps he'll favour us with a solo. (Aside to Bones.) 'Oo is he? 'Oo let him in 'ere—you?
Bones. I dunno. I thought you did. Ain't he stood nothing?
Conductor. Not a brass farden!
Bones (outraged). All right, you leave him to me. (To Alf.) Kin it be? That necktie! them familiar coat-buttons! that paper-dicky! You are—you are my long-lost convick son, 'ome from Portland! Come to these legs! (He embraces Alf, and smothers him with kisses.) Oh, you've been and rubbed off some of your cheek on my complexion—you dirty boy! (He playfully "bashes" Alf's hat in.) Now show the comp'ny how pretty you can sing. (Alf attempts a music-hall ditty, in which he, not unnaturally, breaks down.) It ain't my son's fault, Ladies and Gentlemen, it's all this little gal in front here, lookin' at him and makin' him shy! (To a small Child, severely.) You oughter know worse, you ought! (Clumps of seaweed and paper-balls are thrown at Alf who by this time is looking deplorably warm and foolish.) Oh, what a popilar fav'rite he is, to be sure!
Chorley (to Miss S.). Poor fellow, he ain't no match for those Niggers—not like he is now! Hadn't I better go to the rescue, Miss Loo?
Miss S. (pettishly). I'm sure I don't care what you do.
["Chorley" succeeds, after some persuasion, in removing the unfortunate Alf.
Alf (rejoining his fiancée with a grimy face, a smashed hat, and a pathetic attempt at a grin). Well? I done it, you see!
