AT 2 A.M.

Dominion, Volume 3, Issue 871, 18 July 1910, Page 6

AT 2 A.M.

SAVELOYS AND ACADEMY PICTURES. A. SKETCH.

(By Wl)

The three of us splashed across the square to where a black bulk loomed up ai the feei of royalty, ducked under the arras—merely a sailcloth—leaned our elbows on the ledge, and intimated our desire to eat. The Proprietor regarded us benevolently. "Feelin' 'ungry on it?" - We said we were, and that he was onr last hope. People—ordinary people— do not usually dine at 2 o'clock in. the- 1 morning.. "W,e11," he drawled comically, "I did 'ave some roast duck a little ago—but 'e went, and so did the peas. Couldn't stop'm. But.yev welcome, all the same. What , 11 ye 'aveP There's a few pies left—they're not too bad, y' know. Le's see—wot else?" Ho picked , up a fork, pulled out a draw.er in his copperboiler, speared something, and held it up, while n cloud of steam shot u> , , wards. . " 'Ow's that fer a saveloy?" he asked. . .'.-■■ We regarded it with an admiration which only the pangs of hunger could have inspired, and a cannibal thrill : rippled down our spinal columns. Com- ; pared with the humbler pork variety of : the Sausage, that steaming red saveloy was a scioii of a noble stock. We- were captivated,- and surrendered unanimously. While we ate, he philosophised —he was a born philosopher, and , a cockney. "What time do you start here?" w< inquired. i "Well—l voine along 'bout eight, and stop 'ere- till seven in the mawnin'."- : "Much doing?" "Fair amount, y' know. Ncvrti agine they .rush the caboose, an' dean me aht. Come dahri 'ere lawst Sat , day as per usual, and 'ad to go 'ome agine abaht a-pan r st noine. 'Opped around pretty- loively ail' picked up 'bout five dozen pies fer Sunday. They went in no time. 1 ' . ■ - "How about the rowdies?" He laughed. "But six of'm tried to up-end the caboose the other night, and while they was 'eavin' and pushin', I strolled aht -casual and fetched a couple o' cops. It took eight big wharflumps all'they knew to raise 'er up the other day' when the wheel broke. : He laughed again—"'them sparks 'ad a rough passage," ho drawled reminis-' cently. . . "What do you do with yourself when there's nothing doing?" "Well—sometimes a bit o' readrn.', and sometimes a bit o' oil paintin'." "Oil painting?" "Yes—l'll show ye." He dived mto a cupboard and produced a large box, from which he abstracted a. palette, brushes, tubes, and a canvas. Also, a copy of the latest edition of the Royal Academj - pictures. "I can paint a little bit," he added, "but I'm a bit particular y , know.. Now these 'ere—he turned over the leaves of the fine reproductions—arc wot I call clawss." We could not disagree with his tastes. "How about light?" "Well —I git close up to the lamp 'eie —it's not bad.". "What'do your colours look like in the daylight?" "Not too bad." Hoof beats • approached the statute, and then stopped. Presently a foot scraped without f,, e arras —merely sailcloth —and a cabbie ducked under. Ho was cold; but ful"Ow's 'er 'ead, skipper?" he queried. "There's soniethin , left," replied the "skipper,"- putting the material evidence of nobler things away, and de-. sconding once more' to pies and saveloys. . . . . "Say, skipper," pursued the_ cabbie, - '"ow long 'ud it take that 'aggis, wot'a kickin"up a row, to git 'tre,' and lie placed his finger over the third button of his waistcoat. "Could 'e walk 'ere by 'imself?" The "skipper" was unruffled by this little pleasantry. "That must- 'a. cost you a bit,"-he'observed, with deliberation. "'Ope you didn't 'urt yer pore 'cad, , ' he added, with ironical concern. "No offence, 'skipper'," replied the.eab. bie. cheerfully,'"fetch in the banquet." We left them, at peace.