Tramp. What jer call great?
Chrysalis. To be born, to live!
Tramp. All right, little chrysalis—I won’t desert yer.
Parasite. (Rolling out of the Fly’s lair, and hiccoughing) Ha, ha, ha! Hup—that—ha, ha, hup—the old miser—hup—kept a larder—hup—for that white-faced daughter of his. Hup—ha, ha. I feel quite—hup—I think I’m going to bust—damn the hiccoughs! It’s not every one who’d eat as much as that—hup. I’m not a common man, eh, mate?
Tramp. And ’ow about the Larva?
Parasite. Oh, I’ve gobbled her up too, hup. For what we ’ave received may the—hup.
Tramp. Gah! Bleedin’ Bolshie!
ACT III
THE ANTS
Tramp. It’s like this ’ere ... What’s wrong about Them insec’s, if yer think it out, Is, they’ve no feller-feelin’. Each Jest for ’isself is what they preach.