George. Whilst you was a-doing of the taters, this morning, you did pull up your sleeves. ’Twas then I held the proof. Not that ’twas needed for me, like.
[Clara pushes up both her sleeves, and holds out her arms towards George.
George. [Pointing to the scar.] There ’tis—there’s where th’ old gander have left his mark.
The Children. [Getting up.] Where, where! O do let us see!
[They run round to where Clara stands and look eagerly at the mark on her arm which she shews to them.
Thomas. George, my lad, you baint th’ only one as can play fox.
Emily. Don’t you be so set up as to think as you can, Thomas. For a more foolish figure of a goose never was cut. A man might tell when ’twas his own sister, if so be as he had his full senses upon him.
Thomas. Never you mind, Emily. What I says to George is, he baint th’ only fox. How now, my lad?
George. I don’t see what you be driving at, master.
Thomas. [Slyly.] What about that bit of blue ribbon, George?