Croaker. Murder's the matter. We shall be all blown up in our beds before morning.
Miss Rich. I hope not, sir.
Croaker. What signifies what you hope, madam, when I have a certificate of it here in my hand? Will nothing alarm my family? Sleeping and eating, sleeping and eating, is the only work from morning till night in my house. My insensible crew could sleep, though rocked by an earthquake; and fry beef-steaks at a volcano.
Miss Rich. But, sir, you have alarmed them so often already, we have nothing but earthquakes, famines, plagues, and mad dogs, from year's end to years' end. You remember, sir, it is not above a month ago you assured us of a conspiracy among the bakers, to poison us in our bread; and so kept the whole family a week upon potatoes.
Croaker. And potatoes were too good for them. But why do I stand talking here with a girl, when I should be facing the enemy without? Here, John, Nicodemus, search the house. Look into the cellars, to see if there be any combustibles below; and above, in the apartments, that no matches be thrown in at the windows. Let all the fires be put out, and let the engine be drawn out in the yard, to play upon the house in case of necessity.
[Exit.
Miss Richland alone.
Miss Rich. What can he mean by all this? Yet, why should I inquire, when he alarms us in this manner almost every day? But Honeywood has desired an interview with me in private. What can he mean? or, rather, what means this palpitation at his approach? It is the first time he ever showed anything in his conduct that seemed particular. Sure he cannot mean to——but he's here.
Enter Honeywood.
Honeyw. I presumed to solicit this interview, madam, before I left town, to be permitted—