[He seats himself at the head of the table, and the others take their places, some of them greeting MRS. SECORD with a salute of respect.
Boy, fill those jugs. You girl,
Set that dish down by me, and haste with more.
Bacon's poor stuff when lamb and mint's in season.
Why don't you kill that lamb, Ma'am Secord?
Mrs. Secord. 'Tis a child's pet.
Sergeant. O, pets be hanged!
[Exit MRS. SECORD.
Corporal. Poor thing! I'm sure none of us want the lamb.
A Private. We'll have it, though, and more, if Boerstler—