Todd. In the agitation of the moment I unconsciously drew a pistol from my belt—it went off spontaneously—I heard an awful groan.
Mari. A groan?
Todd. A groan that made me tumble from my mule and roll down a tremendous precipice by the roadside:—a torrent roared at the bottom, in which I should have inevitably finished my tour, if my concertina had not luckily got entangled in the roots of an old tree, where I hung nearly strangled till evening, when I managed to extricate myself and crawl through the wood, until I found a path, which led me to this hospitable abode.
Mari. Then you have no idea where you are?
Todd. Not the remotest; but I can always make myself at home wherever I go. You don’t live quite alone in this tumble-down old place?
Mari. No, I have an uncle, who resides here.
Todd. Oh! (half aside) A joint proprietor with the rats and owls. And what is this uncle of yours, my dear?
Mari. Hem! he has something to do with taxes on the road.
Todd. I know:—a collector of Highway Rates. One of the family used to call regularly upon me at Cozy Cottage, Brompton. The fellow used to bring the Gas and the Sewers with him, and when the Sewers came, I was certain the Thames Water Company was not far off. Your name, sweet flower?
Mari. Marietta.