potatoes. 'Yes, dear,' says Charley; 'an' another
scanlous thing is, that I can't sell 'em for no less.' Charley is the
most affectionate of costers, and is a general favourite with the
abigails of the terrace. His turn-out is the very model of a
travelling green-grocer's shop, well stocked with all the fruits and
vegetables of the season; and he himself is a model of a coster, clean
shaved, clean shod, and trimly dressed, with a flower in his
button-hole, an everlasting smile upon his face, and the nattiest of
neck-ties. The cunning rogue pretends to be smitten with Betty, and
most likely does the same with all the other Bettys of the
neighbourhood, to all of whom he chatters incessantly of everything
and everybody--save and except of the wife and three children waiting
for him at home. He will leave a good portion of his stock behind him
when he quits the terrace.

After Charley has disappeared, there is a pause for an hour or two in
the flow of professionals past Our Terrace. The few pedestrians that
pass along are chiefly gentlefolks, who have come abroad this fine
morning for an airing--to take a constitutional, and to pick up an
appetite for dinner. You may chance to hear the cry of 'Oranges and
nuts,' or of 'Cod--live cod,' and you may be entertained by a band of
musicians in a gaily-coloured van patrolling for the purpose of
advertising the merits of something or other which is to be had for
nothing at all, or the next thing to it, if you can prevail upon
yourself to go and fetch it. Perhaps Punch and Judy will pitch their
little citadel in front of your dwelling; or, more likely still, a
band of mock Ethiopians, with fiddle, castanets, and banjo, may tempt
your liberality with a performance of _Uncle Ned_ or _Old Dan Tucker_;
or a corps of German musicians may trumpet you into a fit of martial
ardour; or a wandering professor of the German flute soothe you into a
state of romance.

As the afternoon wears on, the tranquillity grows more profound. The
villas opposite stand asleep in the sunshine; the sound of a single
footstep is heard on the pavement; and anon you hear the feeble,
cracked voice of old Willie, the water-cress man, distinctly
articulating the cry of 'Water-cresses; fine brown water-cresses;
royal Albert water-cresses; the best in London--everybody say so.' The
water-cresses are welcomed on the terrace as an ornament and something
more to the tea-table; and while tea is getting ready for the
in