Slowgoe. As a loyal subject, that Isle of Wight makes me very uneasy. To be sure, it’s rather near to Portsmouth; nevertheless, when the war breaks out——
Nosebag. And I’m told it’s whizzing up in France like a gingerbeer-cork with the string cut.
Slowgoe. When it goes off, ’twouldn’t at all surprise me if that Joynveal was to ’tack the Isle of Wight, and Osborne House in ’special. I must say it, I should sleep easier with the thoughts of a handful of forty-pounders there. A battery or two would help to set my mind at rest.
Tickle. The Queen and the Prince, they do say, have gone down to see about the planting, and not the guarding, of the place—planting it with trees.
Peabody. What a very pretty picture! Her Gracious Majesty dropping acorns in the earth. Britannia sowing her own oaks.
Tickle. Dear soul! And let us hope she’ll live to see a flourishing crop of three-deckers.
Nutts. There goes one o’clock. Pig’s ready. Can’t shave another hair. (Runs out.)
Mrs Nutts. There! I told you all so. A man with a wife and family, and yet sich a headstrong cretur of crackling!
