Roy. ’Twill be a short one, then; and I’ll give him no quarter.
Mar. Well, how are you all, particularly my bonny Bess? (Shakes hands with her, L.)
Roy. Half a mile below. Did he look rough?
Mar. Rough, but good-natured. Dress ragged, face bloated, figure plump. These fellows thrive on their pickings these pests.
Roy. Don’t say that, Marcus. The fellow may have been unfortunate.
Mar. Unfortunate? Bah! What’s misfortune but a roll in the dust?——jump up, shake yourself, and you’re as good as new. I’ve no patience with a man who wants vim——something on the side of his face——you know——cheek!
Roy. Yes: a quality which tramps (aside) and drummers (aloud) possess in a wonderful degree. (Bess goes up to piano.)
Mar. For my part, I never allow myself to be staggered by the blows of fate. When they come, I take a long breath, and hit out straight from the shoulder.
May. When did you hear from your father, Mr. Graves?
Mar (confused). Eh,——my fa——yes——oh, yes! That is——not lately.