Belinda Ann ensconced herself near the door, where she kept a lively look-out for every fresh arrival, whom she greeted with some choice specimen of wit which, if replied to in the proper spirit, afforded her unbounded satisfaction.
During this period of waiting I was able to study, from the window of the tram, the fashionable hand-shake as practised by a lady with a market-basket taking leave of another matron on the pavement. There was a sort of perpendicular and horizontal movement combined about it which was very difficult to catch but most effective, and I could not but admire the elegance with which it was done. It is, I believe, sacred to trams.
Presently the tram moved off, rather to my relief, for it was decidedly warm waiting in the sun, and we rolled smoothly along, Miss H. ever and anon pointing out objects of interest on the route.
“There’s the bridegroom!” she whispered presently, clutching my arm; and, looking in the direction of her glance, I espied a well set-up young man emerging from a barber’s shop.
Belinda Ann caught sight of him at the same time, and in a sarcastic undertone remarked, “My! Ain’t ’e done ’isself proper?”
I suppose I looked mystified, and, indeed, it was Greek to me until Miss H. silently pointed to the sign over the door—“Shaving done here. Fresh water for every person.” And even then I didn’t quite see it till she explained that the latter was by no means a sine quâ non, but that the bridegroom on this important occasion evidently thought it incumbent on him to do the thing in style!
Next we passed a church with an inscription outside to the effect that parties could be married there for sevenpence halfpenny.
I was still lost in wonder at this legend when a wedding-party emerged and made a wild rush for the tram. The bride came inside and the bridegroom went outside, and I felt grieved to think they should be separated so soon after their sevenpence-halfpennyworth. Judging from the bride’s apparent age, I concluded that the youthful bridesmaid of ten was her eldest daughter.
At this moment a man plumped down next to me carrying a trio of remarkably lively puppies, and the remainder of the drive was rendered extremely hilarious by the antics of the small doggies, who persisted in swarming on to the floor ever other minute, and then abjectly licking our boots.
“They don’t allow live-stock inside the trams on Sundays,” remarked Miss H., as she hauled up a puppy for the twentieth time and handed it over to its rightful owner. “Still,” she added meditatively, “a man may get in holding a sack, not by the neck, but round the loins, so to speak, and if he lets go to get his fare or his handkerchief, you see the sack wriggle!”