Pastor. Policeman, didn’t he confess and make his peace with heaven?
(The Salvation Army man continues to beat his drum frantically; the rest begin to drawl a song. Shouts, laughter, whistling. Singing in the café, and calls of “Waiter!” in all languages. The bewildered policemen tear themselves away from the pastor, who is pulling them somewhere; the photographers turn and twist about as if the seats were burning under them. An English lady comes riding in on a donkey, who, stopping suddenly, sprawls out his legs and refuses to go farther, adding his noise to the rest. Gradually the noise subsides. The Salvation Army band solemnly withdraws, and the pastor, waving his hands, follows them.)
First English Tourist (to the other). How impolite! This crowd doesn’t know how to behave itself.
Second English Tourist. Come, let’s go away from here.
First English Tourist. One minute. (He shouts.) Listen, won’t you hurry up and fall?
Second English Tourist. What are you saying, Sir William?
First English Tourist (shouting). Don’t you see that’s what they are waiting for? As a gentleman you should grant them this pleasure and so escape the humiliation of undergoing tortures before this mob.
Second English Tourist. Sir William.
Tourist (ecstatically). See? It’s true. Aleck, Jimmie, it’s true. What a tragedy!
Several Tourists (going for the Englishman). How dare you?