Larva. Ugly—ugly—ugly! (Crawls away.)
Tramp. Where’s Mr. Manners?—Blowed if I’d feed a daughter Like ’er. Perliteness—that’s what I’d ’ave taught ’er.
Enter Mr. Beetle.
Mr. Beetle. (Calling) Come along, old girl. I’ve found a hole. Where are you? Where’s my pile? Where’s my wife?
Tramp. Your wife? Do you mean that old harridan? That greasy fat bundle of rags?
Mr. Beetle. That’s her—Where’s my pile?
Tramp. That old tub in petticoats?
Mr. Beetle. That’s her—that’s her—She had my pile—What’s she done with my pile?
Tramp. Why, your beauty went to look for you.
Mr. Beetle. Did she? Where’s my pile?