Mrs. Beetle. What gentleman? Who?
Tramp. A pot-bellied fellow, a fat, round chap.
Mrs. Beetle. My husband?
Tramp. A feller with an ugly mug and crooked feet.
Mrs. Beetle. That’s my husband.
Tramp. His capital he said it was.
Mrs. Beetle. That’s him—he must have found a hole—Husband—My precious—Darling! Where is the blasted fool?
Tramp. That’s where he rolled it to.
Mrs. Beetle. Coo-eh! Couldn’t he have called me? Husband, my precious! I’ll learn yer—Our capital—our all—our little pile.
[Exit.