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.