Old M. For these two years past—ever since, please your worship—I wasn’t able to work any longer; for in my youth I did work as well as the best of them.
Land. (eager to interrupt). You work—you—
Just. Let him finish his story, I say.
Lucy. Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle—
Land. (turning suddenly round to Lucy). Miss, a good morrow to you, ma’am. I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.
(Justice nods to the Old Man, who goes on.)
Old Man. But please your worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm; and since that I have never been able to work.
Land. Flummery! flummery!
Just. (angrily). Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that’s poz! You shall have your turn presently.
Old M. For these two years past (for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth?) I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days—but (sighing)—