DICKON [With a profound reverence, backing away.] Will his lordship deign to follow his tutor? [With hitches and jerks, the Scarecrow follows Dickon.]
GOODY RICKBY O Lord! Lord! the style o’ the broomstick!
DICKON [Holding ready a high-backed chair.] Will his lordship be seated and rest himself?
[Awkwardly the Scarecrow half falls into the chair; his head sinks sideways, and his pipe falls out. Dickon snatches it up instantly and restores it to his mouth.]
Puff! Puff, puer; ’tis thy life. [The Scarecrow puffs again.] Is his lordship’s tobacco refreshing?
GOODY RICKBY Look now! The red colour in his cheeks. The beet-juice is pumping, oho!
DICKON [Offering his arm.] Your lordship will deign to receive an audience? [The Scarecrow takes his arm and rises.] The Marchioness of Rickby, your lady mother, entreats leave to present herself.
GOODY RICKBY [Courtesying low.] My son!
DICKON [Holding the pipe, and waving the hazel rod.] Dicite! Speak!
[The Scarecrow, blowing out his last mouthful of smoke, opens his mouth, gasps, gurgles, and is silent.]