Mother.—Aye! That indeed it is. If you can't manage to go and sell some more fagots at the market, we shall soon be starving.
F.—One of the boys will go instead of me.
Jack.—I'll go, Father, willingly.
Tom.—You, you stupid! what do you know of wood-cutting? you will be cutting down blackberry plants, or something, to make firewood of.
F.—Tom can go.
M.—What! Send that precious boy to stand in a damp wood all day!
T.—I must have a good lunch, then, to take with me. A mutton cutlet, a sausage, an apple tart—a hamper full of nice things.
M.—Of course you shall, my pretty dear.
F.—Well, I don't think there will be much work done—he will be much too busy with his sausage and apple tart.
T.—Well, Father, you don't want me to starve, I suppose!