Omar.
[Terrified.] Here, Sáki, come back. How am I to find my way without you? [A pause.] What’s come to the girl? I only spoke—hic—meta—phorically. Difficult word to say, meta—phorically! [Longer pause.] How am I to get home? Can’t go ’lone. Must wait for someone to come along. [Peers tipsily about him.] Strange, isn’t it, that though lots of people go along here every day, not one returns to tell me of the road! Very strange. S’pose must sleep here.... S’pose——
[Rolls into ditch and falls asleep.
[The curtain falls for a moment. When it rises again, day is departing and it is growing dark. Omar is still in his ditch. The door of the potter’s house, to the left of the stage, is open, the Potter having betaken himself to the tavern opposite, and the pots within are arguing fiercely.
First Pot.
Don’t tell me I was only made to be broken. I know better.
Second Pot.
Even a peevish boy wouldn’t break me! The Potter would whack him if he did!
Third Pot.