_It is about nine P.M.; in the West, a faint saffron flush
is lingering above the green and opal sea, while the upper
part of the church tower still keeps the warm glow of sunset.
The stars are beginning to appear, and a mellow half moon is
rising in a deep violet sky. Lamps are twinkling above the
dusky cliffs, and along the curve of the shore._
_The Reader will kindly imagine himself on a seat at the
end of the Pier, where the Sand is playing, and scraps of
conversation from his neighbours and passing promenaders,
reach his ear involuntarily._
_Fair Promenader_ (_roused to enthusiasm by the surroundings_). Oh,
don't it look lovely at night? (_Impulsively._) I can't _'elp_ sayin'
so.
_Her Companion_ (_whose emotions are less easily stirred_). Why?
_The Fair P._ (_apologetically_). Oh, I don't know exactly--these sort
o' scenes always _do_ take my fancy.
_Her Comp._ (_making a concession to her weakness_). Well, I must say
it's picturesque enough--what with the gas outside the 'All by the
Sea, and the lamps on the whilk stalls.
[Illustration: "Some people will tell yer, now, that Margit's
_vulgar_."]
_First Girl_ (_on seat--to Second_). Here comes that young SPIFFING. I
do hope he won't come bothering _us_! (_Mr. S. gratifies her desire
by promenading past in bland unconsciousness_.) Well, I do call that
_cool_! He must have seen us. Too grand to be seen talking to us
_here_, I suppose!
_Second Girl_. I'm sure I wouldn't be seen talking to _him_, that's
all! Why, he's on'y-- [_They pick him to pieces relentlessly._
_First Girl_. Take care--he's coming round again. Now we shall see.
Mind you don't begin laughing, or else you'll set _me_ off!
[_As a natural consequence, Mr. S.'s approach excites them
both to paroxysms of maidenly mirth._
_Mr. S._ (_halting in front of them_). You two seem 'ighly amused at
something. What's the joke?
_Second Girl_ (_as the first is compelled to bury her face behind her
friend's back_). Don't you be too curious. I'll tell you this much--at
_your_ expense!
_Mr. S._ Oh, is it? Then you might let Me 'ave a a'porth!
_First Girl_. BELLA, if you tell him, I'll never speak to you again.
[_As there is nothing particular to tell, Miss BELLA
preserves the secret._
_Mr. S._ (_reconnoitring his rear suspiciously_). There's nothing
pinned on to my coat-tails, is there? (_Renewed mirth from the
couple_.) Well, I see you're occupied--so, good evenin'.
[_Walks on, with offended dignity._
_Second Girl_. There! I _knew_ how it would be--he's gone off in a
huff now!
_First Girl_. Let him! He ought to know better than take offence at
nothing. And such a ridic'lous little object as he's looking, too!
What else can he _expect_, I'd like to know!... Don't you feel it
chilly, sitting still?
_Second Girl_ (_rising with alacrity_). I was just thinking. Suppose
we take a turn--the _other_ way round, or he might think--
_First Girl_. We'll show him others have their pride as well as him.
[_They disappear in the crowd._
_Mr. Spiffing_ (_repassing a few minutes later, with one of the young
Ladies on each arm_). Well, there, say no more about it--so long as it
wasn't at Me, I don't mind! [_They pass on._
_A Wheezy Matron_ (_in a shawl_). She was a prettier byby in the fice
than any o' the others--sech a lydylike byby she was--we never 'ad
no bother with her! and never, as long as I live, shall I forgit her
Grandpa's words when he saw her settin' up in her 'igh cheer at tea,
with her little cheeks a marsk o' marmalade. "LOUISER JYNE," he sez,
"you mark my words--she's the on'y reelly _nice_ byby you ever 'ad, or
_will_ ave!"
_Her Comp_. An' he wasn't given to compliments in a general way,
neither, _was_ he?
_Anxious Mother_. I can't make him out. Sometimes I think he means
something, and yet,--Every morning we've been here, he's come up to
her on the Pier, and brought her a carnation inside of his 'at.
_Her Confidante_. Then depend upon it, my dear, he has intentions. _I_
should say so, certingly!
_The Mother_. Ah, but CARRIE tells me she's dropped her glove,
accidental-like, over and over again, and he's always picked it
up,--and handed it back to her. I reelly don't know what _to_ think!
_The Confidante_. Well, I wouldn't lose heart--with the moon drawin'
on to the full, as it is!
_A Seaside Siren_ (_conscious of a dazzling complexion--to a
suburban Ulysses_). I wish I could get brown--I think it's so awfully
becoming--but I never can!
_Ulysses_. Some people _are_ like that. On'y turn _red_, you know,
specially the nose--catches 'em _there_, y'know!
_The Siren_. I'm obliged to you, I'm sure! Is that meant to be
personal?
_Ulysses_. Oh, I wasn't thinking of _you_ when I said that.
_The Siren_. You're very complimentary. But do tell me--am _I_ like
that? (_She presents her face for his inspection_.) Candidly, now.
_Ulysses_ (_conscientiously_). Well, I don't notice anything
particular--but, you see, colours don't show up by moonlight.
[_The Siren coldly intimates that her Mother will be
waiting supper for them._
_An Habitué_. Some people will tell yer, now, that Margit's _vulgar_.
They must be precious 'ard to please, that's all! I'm as partickler
as what most are, and I can assure yer if there was anythink o' _that_
sort about, I shouldn't come down 'ere reglar, season after season,
like I do!
_His Companion_. In course not--and no more shouldn't I, neither!
_ALONG THE ESPLANADE._
_Female Voice_ (_from the recesses of a glazed shelter_). But if
you're on the sands all day, how is it I never _see_ you?
_Male Voice_ (_mysteriously_). Would you like to know? Really? You
shall. (_With pride_.) I'm one of the Niggers!
_Fem. V._ (_deeply impressed_). Not "GUSSIE," or "Uncle ERNIE!"
_Male V._ (_with proud superiority_). Not exactly. I conduct, _I_
do--on the 'armonium.
_Fern. V._ (_rapturously_). Oh! I 'ad a sort o' feeling, from the very
first, that you must be _Somebody_!
_A Lodging-House Keeper_. Yes, nice people they was--I don't know when
I've _'ad_ such nice people. I'll tell you what they _did_ ... They
come on a Thursday--yes, Thursday it was--and took the rooms from the
Saturday followin' to the next Saturday--and then they stopped on to
the Saturday after that. I do call that nice--don't _you_?
_A Mystic Plaint_ (_from a Bench_). Many and many a time I've borrered
the kittles for them when the School Inspector was comin'--and now for
them to turn round on me like this! It's a shame, it is.
_A Lady of Economical Principles_ (_at a Bow-window, addressing her
Husband at the railings_). Why, my dear _feller_, why ever did you go
and do _that_--when there was a bed empty 'ere for him?
_The Husband_ (_sulkily_). No one ever said a word to _me_ about there
being a bed. And I've taken one for him now at the Paragon, anyway--so
_that's_ settled!
_The Economical Lady_. I call it downright foolishness to go paying
'alf-a-crown a night for a bed, when there's one all ready _'ere_ for
him! And you don't know _how_ long he may mean to stop, either!
_The Self-invited Visitor_ (_suddenly emerging from the
shadow_).--You'll be 'appy to know, Mum, that your 'ospitality will
not exceed the 'alf-crown. Good evenin'. [_Retires to the Paragon._
_The Econ. L._ (_regretfully_). And a lobster ordered in for supper
a-purpose for him, too!
_A Street Musician_ (_with a portable piano_). I will next attempt
a love-song. I feel full of love to-night. Oh, Ladies and
Gentlemen--(_earnestly_)--take advantage of a salubrious night like
this! Anyone who has not yet contributed will kindly embrace this
opportunity of placing his offering upon the instrument; after which I
shall endeavour to sing you "_In Old Madrid_." Oh, _what_ a difficult
ditty it is, to be sure, dear Ladies and Gentlemen--especially as it
makes the twenty-seventh I've sung since tea-time--however, I will do
my best. (_He sings it_.) That will conclude my _al-fresco_ Concert
for this evening. And now, thanking you all for your generous
patronage of my humble efforts, and again reminding those who have not
yet expressed their appreciation in a pecuniary form, that I am now
about to circulate with the hat for the last time, I wish you all
farewell, and balmy slumbers!
[_He collects the final coins, and wheels away the piano. The
crowd disperses; the listeners in the lodging-house balconies
retire; and the Crescent is silent and deserted._
* * * * *