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 sea-weed 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!

_Charley_ (_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._