Exit. MATTIE walks past the window.
Mat. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief to be suspected.
Bill. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!—Mattie! Mattie!
Mat. Ah, Bill! you're there—are you?
Bill. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up and takes yer chice;—leastways, you makes it: somebody else takes it.
Mat. Wouldn't you like to take your choice sometimes, Bill?
Bill. In course I would.
Mat. Then why don't you work, and better yourself a bit?
Bill. Bless you, Mattie! myself is werry comf'able. He never complains.
Mat. You're hungry sometimes,—ain't you?