Mrs. Secord (spreading a cloth upon the table). God help us if these men much longer live
Upon our failing stores.
Enter FLOS.
What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?
Flos. De mistis knows it aint much, pas' noo bread,
An' two—three pies. I've sot some bacon sisslin',
An' put some taties on when Pete done tole me.
Pete. Give 'em de cider, mistis, an' some beer,
And let 'em drink 'em drunk till mas'r come
An' tell me kick 'em out.
Flos. You!—jes' hol' yer sassy tongue.
[Footsteps are heard without.
Pete. Dat's um. Dey's comin'. Dat poo', sick hoss—
[He makes for the door.
Mrs. Secord. You, Pete, come back and lay this cloth,
And wait at table properly with Flos.