Mrs Nutts. There, go along; how should I know? Stabbed him with a dagger, eh? Poor soul! and I daresay served him right. Well?
Tickle. Now she’s got to Bavaria; and she makes no more of the King’s crown than a thimble. And they do say that the old gen’l’man—that is, the King—though he’s got a snow-white beard a foot long, is gone so raving mad about her that the unfortunate old man doesn’t know the Queen, his own lawful wife.
Mrs Nutts. Nothing more likely.
Tickle. And more than that, Mrs Nutts; she’s kicked over the Cabinet like a tea-table, and smashed the Ministry as if they was so many cups and sarcers. Besides which, the paper here says, she walks about Munich with a bulldog to pertect her innocence.
Mrs Nutts. Innocence! I’m not cruel—no, I should hope not; but, as I’m a living woman, if I was the Queen, I’d gullyteen her!
NUTTS comes in.
Nutts. Hallo! Mrs Nutts! Talking about bloodshed in that horrible manner?
Mrs Nutts. Oh, of course; you’ll take her part. It’s such creturs that are most cared for; but I only wish I was Queen, that’s all. I’m not cruel, as I said afore; but as sure as I’d a palace gate, her head should be a-top of it; yes, if she’d a thousand bayonets for busks, that it should. And you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Nutts—you, the father of a family—to stand there taking the cretur’s part. Dormalolez, indeed!
Nutts. Oh, that’s what it is, eh? Now, Mr Nosebag, will you take the chair? I’ve read all about that.
Mrs Nutts. Of course you have; I saw you laughing and enjoying yourself, and I knew by the way of you there could be no good in it. Go on, Mr Tickle; of course the cretur has turned the poor Queen out of her palace, and is at this moment walking about the town with her crown upon her head—a minx—jest like ’em.