A SELL.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1658, 13 June 1879, Page 4

A SELL.

It was a well-known Front street merchant —one of the front orchestra seat brigade, whose head was more clear than level, and who waited around the stage entrance to the Standard Theatre the other night after the performance, trying to conceal a handsome bouquet under his Ulster. For a long time he kept anxiously peering at the different specimens of Madame Rente’s syrens as they put up their umbrellas and trotted away in the rain. After waiting patiently for about an hour, he approached an individual with a red scarf and a slouch hat, who stood smoking a queer cigar at the entrance, and said : “ Can you tell me, sir, if Mias Chloroline haa’gone home yet ? ” “Oh, yea ; been gone half-an-hour,” replied the slouch hat party, cheerfully. “ Those flowers for her ?” “Well,—er —um —yes.” “I’ll give ’em to her - see her later,” said the obliging man. “ Will you ? That’s very kind, I’m sure.” “Oh, not at all,” said the man, smelling the bouquet with the air of a connoiseur, “ anything else ? ” “Well—ahem!—yes. Just give her this pair of ear-rings. ” “ Certainly. What name shall I say ? ” “Just say that ‘Baby Mine’—she’ll understand—sends love, and says 2.30, same place, to morrow.” “I’ll ju*t take a mem of that,” said the red-tie man, writing on his shirt-cuff. “2.30, same place to-morrow. All right. Anything else ? ” “No ; that’s all, Sure you’ll see her this evening ? ” “ Oh, certain.” “ And you’ll get a chance to speak to her when there’s no one around ? ” “ Oh, dead sure I You see, I’m her husband I ”

“Baby Mine” fainted, and was sent heme in a hack.