Exit, L.
Mrs. G. Well, if this ain't drefful!—washing-day, too—and the undertaker's jest as busy as he can be—there never was so much immortality in this place, never. Poor critters! poor critters!
Miss P. Girls, what does this mean?
Sadie. O, Miss Pease, such agony!
Bessie. O, dear, what will become of me?
Jenny. O, this dreadful parching in the throat!
Mrs. G. O, I know it, I know it. I told my husband that something dreadful was a goin' to happen when he sold that colt yesterday.
Miss P. Sadie, what is the meaning of this. Your pulse is regular, your head cool, and your tongue clear.
Sadie. O, Miss Pease, it's those dreadful pickles.
Mrs. G. Yes, indeed, it is a drefful pickle—and so sudden, jest for all the world like poor Mr. Brown's sudden took, and these always seem to end fatally at some time or other—Dear me, dear me, and my wash—