Sir Fran. The goose-pye gone? how?
Cook. Why, Sir, I had got it fast under my arm to bring it in, but being almost dark, up comes two of these thin starv'd London rogues, one gives me a great kick o' the——here; [Laying her hand upon her backside.] while t'other hungry varlet twitch'd the dear pye out of my hands, and away they run dawn street like two grayhounds. I cry'd out fire! but heavy George and fat Tom are after 'em with a vengeance; they'll sauce their jackets for 'em, I'll warrant 'em.
Enter George with a bloody face, and Tom.
So, have you catch'd 'em?
Geo. Catch'd 'em! the gallows catch 'em for me. I had naw run half the length of our beam, before somewhat fetch me such a wherry across the shins, that dawn came I flop o' my face all along in the channel, and thought I shou'd ne'er ha gotten up again; but Tom has skawar'd after them, and cried murder as he'd been stuck.
Tom. Yes, and straight upo' that, swap comes somewhat across my forehead, with such a force, that dawn came I like an ox.
Squire Humph. So, the poor pye's quite gone then.
Tom. Gone, young measter, yeaten, I believe by this time. These, I suppose, are what they call sharpers in this country.
Squire Humph. It was a rare good pye.
Cook. As e'er these hands put pepper to.