Mrs. Rapkin, don't you lose your head! I depend on you, you know. Get your husband away and make him sober—or the dinner's bound to come to grief!
Mrs. Rapkin.
Dinner indeed! And me unable to get into my own kitching for them nasty niggers o' yours as is swarmin' there like beedles! The gell's bolted already, and you and me'll go next, William, for stay under this roof with sech I won't!
[She drags Rapkin by the arm to arch up on right.
Horace.
I say, Mr. Rapkin, don't you two desert me now! Just think of the hole I'm in!
Mrs. Rapkin.
Bein' a 'ole of your own makin', sir, you can get out of it yourself! Come, William!
Rapkin.
I'm comin', M'rire! [As he is dragged through arch by Mrs. Rapkin.] You'll 'ear more o' this, Mr. Ventimore!