John. Why, sir, as I was coming home this morning over Black Down, what does I see but young master tearing over the turf upon Daisy, thof your honour had forbid him to ride her—so I calls to him to stop—but what does he do, but smacks his whip in my face, and dash over the gate into Stoney Lane; but what’s worse, when I rated him about it, he snatches up Tom Carter’s long whip, and lays me so over the legs, and before I could catch hold of him, he slips out of the stable, and was off like a shot.
Pick. Well, if I forgive him this—no—I’ll send him this moment back to school.—School! zounds, I’ll send him to sea.
Enter Miss Pickle.
Miss P. Well, brother, yonder comes your precious child—he’s muttering all the way up stairs to himself, some fresh mischief, I suppose.
Pick. Aye, here he comes—stand back—let us watch him, though I can never contain my passion long.
[they withdraw to the back of the stage.
Enter Little Pickle.
Little P. Well, so far all goes on rarely, dinner must be nearly ready; old Poll will taste well, I dare say—parrot and bread sauce—ha! ha! ha!—they suppose they are going to have a nice young pheasant, an old parrot is a greater rarity, I’m sure—I can’t help thinking how devilish tough the drumsticks will be—a fine piece of work, aunt will make when it’s found out—ecod, for aught I know, that may be better fun than the other: no doubt Sukey will tell, and John too, about the horse—a parcel of sneaking fellows, always tell, tell, tell.—I only wish I could catch them a school, once—that is all—I’d pay them well for it I’d be bound.—Oh! oh! here they are, and as I live, my father and aunt—it’s all out I see—to be sure I’m not got into a fine scrape now, I almost wish I was safe at school again. (they come forward) Oh, sir, how do you do, sir, I was just coming to——
Pick. Come, come, no fooling now—how dare you look me in the face after the mischief you have done?
Little P. What—what have I done?