The jogger told me, with tears of pride in his eyes and a glorified
countenance, that only a few days before, in the waiting-room of a
railway station, he had the pleasure to present his pamphlet to Cardinal
Manning. And the Cardinal bowed and put it in his pocket.
Just as everybody walks on the sunny side of Regent-street, so there are
certain spots on the beach where people crowd together. This is one of
them; just west of the West Pier there is a fair between eleven and one
every bright morning. Everybody goes because everybody else does. Mamma
goes down to bathe with her daughters and the little ones; they take two
machines at least; the pater comes to smoke his cigar; the young fellows
of the family-party come to look at "the women," as they irreverently
speak of the sex. So the story runs on _ad infinitum_, down to the
shoeless ones that turn up everywhere. Every seat is occupied; the boats
and small yachts are filled; some of the children pour pebbles into the
boats, some carefully throw them out; wooden spades are busy; sometimes
they knock each other on the head with them, sometimes they empty pails
of sea-water on a sister's frock. There is a squealing, squalling,
screaming, shouting, singing, bawling, howling, whistling,
tin-trumpeting, and every luxury of noise.
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