Drawing Rooms, Second Floor, and Attics: A Farce, in One Act

by John Maddison Morton

ARABEL. I’m sure I feel highly flattered, Mr. Sharp; but I cannot dispose of my hand without the consent of my family.

SHARP. Family! I understood you were a horphan.

ARABEL. So I am; when I say my family, I allude to my gallant brother, Captain Hardaport, who is now actively engaged in his country’s service.

SHARP. Where?

ARABEL. On the coast of Devonshire, in the herring fishery. (here the legs appear, as before, kicking violently, and trying to find a resting place)

SHARP. And now Miss Arabella, I’ve another agreeable surprise for you.

ARABEL. What?

SHARP. I’ve appropriated a pie—weal and ham, which is now in a ’amper outside, along with all the ingredients for a bowl of punch, except the hot water.

ARABEL. Oh, I can soon manage that, by lighting the fire.

PHŒBE. (starting—aside) Oh, lud! Poor Trip will be roasted alive! (aloud and very quickly) You needn’t light the fire; I’ll run for some hot water, and be back immediately. Don’t light the fire on any account.