(Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily.)
Mr. C.—What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see
Above all others. Curse my pedigree!
Air—Mr. Clipclose.—("I've been roaming.")
I've been nabb'd, sirs,—I've been nabb'd, sirs,—
And bundled off direct to jail,
By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,
And now I'm out upon stag-bail.
(Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand.)
Mr. C.—Is this good stout?
Mags (feelingly). My honest master, quaff!
You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.
Air—Poppleton.—("Here we go up, up, up.")