Waiting for an Omnibus in the Lowther Arcade on a Rainy Day: A Farce, in One Act

by John Maddison Morton

BEADLE. (L.) The Brentford ’bus, ladies!

MRS. J. Come along, Fanny. We shall see you to-morrow, Mr. O’Walker. Now, Fanny.

O’WALKER opens his umbrella, and escorts the LADIES off, L.

BEADLE. (picking up reticule which MRS. JELLICOE has let fall) Holloa, the old lady has dropped her ridicule, and there goes the ’bus!

Re-enter O’WALKER, L., with his umbrella up.

O’WALKER. Ha, ha, ha! it’s too bad—but I can’t help laughing.

BEADLE. (as before—pointing to O’WALKER’S umbrella, touching his hat, &c.; O’WALKER puts umbrella down) Please, sir, one of the ladies dropt this article—perhaps you’ll take care of it, sir?

O’WALKER. (taking the reticule) Of course—here! (feels in his pocket—then puts his hand into the reticule, takes out purse, and gives the BEADLE money) I always make a point of rewarding honesty—there’s half-a crown for you! (puts purse in his pocket—BEADLE touches his hat, and retires) As I said before, I can’t help laughing; that poor innocent little Fanny, too, flattering herself she’s the only woman I ever loved. If she could only see a catalogue of my tender attachments, she’d find herself about the hundred and sixteenth on the list—that dear Patty Peckover, for instance. I do believe I should have married that Patty Peckover if she hadn’t had so many cousins in the Life Guards; but she was a good-hearted soul—she never would have treated me as Miss Amelia Jones has done. When I think of the number of cubas I’ve smoked in that woman’s little back parlour, and the bill I owe that woman for those cubas, that woman’s ingratitude quite shocks me! Here’s a letter she wrote me yesterday. (taking out letter and reading) “Perfidious monster”—that’s so like Amelia Jones, that is—“you’re going to be married, are you? Don’t deny it, hideous wretch that you are;” that’s Amelia Jones all over, that is—(reading)—“but I’ll be revenged: listen—I have kept your letters, miscreant!” that’s a favourite expression of Amelia Jones’s, that is—(reading)—“and to-morrow they shall be in the hands of your intended. So tremble, viper! and believe me to remain as usual—your fond and affectionate—Amelia.” Now any one would imagine that Amelia Jones was an exceedingly ill-used young woman—but it’s no such thing. I went to her shop in Little Windmill Street this evening, prepared to offer her a shilling a piece for my letters, she wasn’t at home—so I went into her little back parlour, and there, lying open upon the table, and staring me in the face, was this letter (showing letter)—beginning with “Loveliest of Amelias,” and winding up with “Your fondest of Browns.” Now here’s a woman who’s got a Brown—a mysterious Brown—a Brown who by his own account is the “fondest of Browns,” and yet this woman presumes to call me a viper. Such is the sex—I grieve to say, but such is the sex. (during the above he has been occasionally cracking nuts, which he takes out of MRS. JELLICOE’S reticule—very suddenly) Goodness gracious, I forgot Dibbs! (pulling out his watch) A quarter to two! Why it was a quarter to two the last time I looked. (holding the watch to his ear) It’s stopped—that’s pleasant; what’s to be done now? Ah, there goes an omnibus. Here! Stop! Conductor—Pimlico——

Puts up his umbrella, and runs out at L., nearly upsetting MR. BARBICAN BROWN, who enters at the same time.

BROWN. (who is without an overcoat or umbrella, has a pair of nankeen trowsers on, and is drenched with rain) I am not aware that I ever saw a drownded rat, but I should say that the appearance of that animal when in that state must closely resemble mine! It’s a singular fact, but this morning I said to myself as I was dressing myself, “Barbican Brown,” said I, “thirty years’ experience tells you that as sure as you put on nankeens, so sure is it to rain;” nevertheless, nankeens I did put on—I sally out—before I get to the end of the street down comes a shower—nankeens soaked! I go into a pastrycook’s, call for a basin of soup, dry my nankeens at the fire, sally out again, down comes another shower—nankeens soaked again; go into another pastrycook’s, another basin of soup, another shower—nankeens soaked again! Look at me now, I’ve just swallowed my thirteenth basin of soup, dried my nankeens for the thirteenth time—I sally out, down comes the fourteenth shower, and, as you see, nankeens soaked again!