_Alf._ P'raps you think I can't. But, if I was to go upon the 'Alls now, I should make my fortune in no time! Loo's 'eard me when I've been in form, and she'll tell you---- _Miss Serge._ Well, I will say there's many a professional might learn a lesson from Alf--whether Mr. Perkins believes it or not. [_Cuttingly, to "Chorley"._ _Chorley._ Now reelly, Miss Loo, don't come down on a feller like that. I want to see him do you credit, that's all, and he couldn't 'ave a better opportunity to distinguish himself--now _could_ he? _Miss Serge._ _I'm_ not preventing him. But I don't know--these Niggers keep themselves very select, and they might object to it. _Alf._ I'll soon square _them_. You keep your eye on me, and I'll make things a bit livelier! [_He enters the circle._ _Miss Serge_ (_admiringly_). He has got a cheek, I must say! Look at him, dancing there along with those two Niggers--they don't hardly know what to make of him yet! _Chorley._ Do you notice how they keep kicking him beyind on the sly like? I wonder he puts up with it! _Miss S._ He'll be even with them presently--you see if he isn't. [_Alf attempts to twirl a tambourine on his finger, and lets it fall; derision from audience; Bones pats him on the head and takes the tambourine away--at which Alf only smiles feebly._ _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._