Peabody. And his head, too? Because ’tisn’t always so certain.
Tickle. And further; baby has the right, in honour of the Sov’ran, at any of the royal bullfights, to rush in among the bulls, taking any of ’em by the horns he likes——
Mrs Nutts. Poor little innocent!
Tickle. Or taking his chance o’ luck as it comes. In fact, doing as the boys do with the pie-man—risking a toss for it. And that’s what it is to be a grandee of Spain, Mrs Nutts!
Mrs Nutts. Well, I thank my stars none o’ my precious babes are that. They are not called upon to wear their hats and show their ill-manners afore their lawful Queen; they are not called upon to——
Nutts. No; and they’re not called upon to eat up the apples and sugar, but they’re doing it. (Mrs Nutts rushes to back parlour: squalling heard.) Best children in the world: I know ’em; they won’t cry above half an hour. Tell me where did they ring the married couples?
Nosebag. At the Church of A-toucher.
Peabody. Atocha, my good sir. The Virgin of Atocha is the saint of all the Queens of Spain.
Nutts. Ecod, she must have had her hands full in her time! Queen Christina, I don’t know how it is—I never saw the lady, don’t think I ever shall—but, somehow, I never read or hear about her that I don’t think of that beautiful female panther that Mr Tyler’s got in the ’Logical Gardens.
Slowgoe. There you are agin. Flinging at kings and queens! If you will go on being an infidel, I must leave the shop. How can a she-panther be like a Queen of Spain?