Punch. Don’t be cross, my dear: I didn’t go to do it.
Judy. I’ll pay yer for throwing the child out of the winder. (She keeps on giving him knocks of the head, but Punch snatches the stick away, and commences an attack upon his wife, and beats her severely.)
Judy. I’ll go to the constable, and have you locked up.
Punch. Go to the devil. I don’t care where you go. Get out of the way! (Judy exaunts, and Punch then sings, “Cherry ripe,” or “Cheer, boys, cheer.” All before is sentimental, now this here’s comic. Punch goes through his roo-too-to-rooey, and then the Beadle comes up.)
Beadle. Hi! hallo, my boy!
Punch. Hello, my boy. (He gives him a wipe over the head with his stick, which knocks him down, but he gets up again.)
Beadle. Do you know, sir, that I’ve a special order in my pocket to take you up?
Punch. And I’ve a special order to knock you down. (He knocks him down with simplicity, but not with brutality, for the juvenial branches don’t like to see severity practised.)
Beadle. (Coming up again.) D’ye know, my boy, that I’ve an order to take you up?
Punch. And I’ve an order I tell ye to knock you down. (He sticks him. Punch is a tyrant to the Beadle, ye know, and if he was took up he wouldn’t go through his rambles, so in course he isn’t.)