Sus. Oh, dear sir—oh, dear madam—my young master—the parrot, ma’am—oh dear!
Pick. Parrot, and your young master; what the deuce does the girl mean?
Miss P. Mean! Why as sure as I live that vile boy has been hurting my poor bird.
Sus. Hurting, ma’am—no indeed, ma’am; I’ll tell you the whole truth—I was not to blame, indeed I wasn’t, ma’am, besides, I am morally certain ’twas the strange cat that kill’d it this morning.
Miss P. How! kill’d it say you;—but go on, let us hear the whole.
Sus. Why ma’am, the truth is, I did but step out of the kitchin for a moment, when in comes my young master, whips the pheasant that was roasting for dinner, from the spit, and claps down your ladyship’s parrot, picked and trussed in its place.
Pick. The parrot!—the devil.
Sus. I kept basting and basting on, and never thought I was basting the parrot.
Miss P. Oh, my sweet, my beautiful young bird, I had just taught it to talk, too.