[Looking out and shouting.] How do you do, Judge? [Aims at him.] Mind yourself!
[She fires.
Brack.
[Entering.] What the devil! Do you usually take pot-shots at casual visitors?
[Annoyed.
Hedda.
Invariably, when they come by the back-garden. It is my unconventional way of intimating that I am at home. One does do these things in realistic dramas, you know. And I was only aiming at the blue sky.
Brack.
Which accounts for the condition of my hat. [Exhibiting it.] Look here—riddled!
Hedda.