Ned. The truth. You’re meddling with my tools; and if you’re not out of this place in three seconds, I’ll wallop you.
Mary. O, Ned, Ned! it’s all my fault. I set him to work.
Ned. O, indeed! That’s quite another matter. But he can’t stay on my bench.
Douglas. If you’re not more civil, you won’t stay on it long. Mind that, Master Ned.
Ned. What d’ye mean?
Mary. Now, don’t quarrel. Bring the pail in for me, Ned.—Mr. Douglas, I’ll give you a lesson another time. (Exit, L.)
Ned. Lesson, indeed! You work with your white hands! Bah, you couldn’t earn your salt! (Exit, L.)
Douglas. Confound that fellow, he puts on more airs than a nabob! He’s in the way. Mary is too fond of him; and he, with that jealous glitter in his eye, too much in love with her for my comfort. He must be got rid of. Pshaw, Douglas! What chance could a poor journeyman shoemaker have with the lady of your choice? Rich, accomplished, by no means a bad-looking fellow, the whole family would be delighted to gain so distinguished a connection. And she, I know, looks upon me with favor. I have only to gain the old man’s consent. And that’s an easy matter. Still, I don’t like the idea of this fellow’s presence. He must be got rid of. But how? Will! Ah, there’s a ready tool. I want him in the city. There’s a little sharp practice in which I want a second hand to work; and Will’s the lad. If I can only get him to pick a quarrel with Ned Hartshorn, bring them to blows, and thus arouse the old man’s temper, they’ll both be turned out of doors. Will would be mine, and the other out of the way.
Will. (Outside. Sings.)