Mrs. Hard. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.
Hard. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking trumpet—(Tony hallooing behind the scenes)—O there he goes—A very consumptive figure, truly.
Enter Tony, crossing the stage.
Mrs. Hard. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee?
Tony. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay.
Mrs. Hard. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear; you look most shockingly.
Tony. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward.
Hard. Ay; the alehouse, the old place: I thought so.
Mrs. Hard. A low, paltry set of fellows.
Tony. Not so low neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse-doctor, little Aminadab, that grinds the music-box, and Tom Twist, that spins the pewter platter.