ALLEN. Never thee mind, mother, thee be quite right to be careful o’ me! There baint another son like me in the whole country, be there?
DEB. (At fire.) To the credit of old Devon be it said.
ALLEN. Halloa! (Goes r. to Deborah.)
MRS. R. Ah! now that just serves thee right for laughing at thee old mother. (Crosses l. and sits knitting next to Purtwee.)
ALLEN. Ah! that be the worst of letting the children stop oop arter their proper toime, they allus gets so saucy. What have thee there? Lurd bust me, I have got a vacuum inside o’ me. Poached eggs?
DEB. No; poached trout.
MR. P. Eh! what’s that?
ALLEN. Hulloa! Thee’ve done it now. Why, Mr. Purtwee be Lord Netherby’s lawyer, and he’ll ha’ thee hanged in chains on Dunkery Beacon, sure as fate.
DEB. Ah, well, you see I didn’t poach him, I’m only frying him. There’s no law against frying fish, is there?
ALLEN. (r.c.) Aye, well, us’ll forgive thee this time, if ee’ll promise to do it again soon. Come and give us a kiss.