Clown. What would you like?
Punch. Not peculiar.
(Not particular, he means, you know; that’s a slip word.)
Clown. I’ll go up into the landlord, and see if he’s got anything to eat. (Exaunt into cottage, and poking his head of the window.) Here, Punch; here’s the landlord fast asleep in the kitchen cellar; here’s a lot of sausages hanging up here.
(Joey’s a-thieving; don’t you see, he’s a robbing the landlord now?)
Would you like some for supper, eh, Punch?
Punch. Yes, to be sure.
Clown. Don’t make a noise; you’ll wake the landlord.
Punch (whispering as loud as he can bawl through the window). Hand ’em out here. (Punch pulls them out of the window.)
Clown. What are we to fry them in? I’ll go and see if I can find a fryingpan.