Watchman. Look you here again—This is a mad Parson, Mr. Constable; I’ll lay a Pot of Ale upon’s Head, he’s a good Preacher.
Constable. Come, Sir, out of Respect to your Calling, I shan’t put you into the Round house; but we must secure you in our Drawing-Room till Morning, that you may do no Mischief. So, come along.
Sir John. You may put me where you will, Sirrah, now you have overcome me—But if I can’t do Mischief, I’ll think of Mischief—in spite of your Teeth, you Dog you.
(Exeunt.)[52]
YOU NEVER CAN TELL
ACT IV
Waiter. (Entering anxiously through the window.) Beg pardon, ma’am; but can you tell me what became of that—(He recognizes Bohun, and loses all his self-possession. Bohun waits rigidly for him to pull himself together. After a pathetic exhibition of confusion, he recovers himself sufficiently to address Bohun weakly, but coherently.) Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure, sir. Was—was it you, sir?
Bohun. (Ruthlessly.) It was I.
Waiter. (Brokenly.) Yes, sir. (Unable to restrain his tears.) You in a false nose, Walter! (He sinks faintly into a chair at the table.) I beg your pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. A little giddiness—
Bohun. (Commandingly.) You will excuse him, Mrs. Clandon, when I inform you that he is my father.