(Ezra, who has shrunk back, gasping, into his chair, suddenly starts chuckling to himself.)
Bell:
You’re merry, sir! Will you not share the jest?
Aren’t you the sparky blade, the daffing callant,
Naffing and nickering like a three-year-old?
Come, none-so-pretty, cough the old wheeze up,
Before it chokes you. Let me clap your back.
You’re, surely, never laughing at a lady?
(Seizing him by the collar, and shaking him.)
You deafy nut—you gibbet—you rusty corncrake!
Tell me what’s kittling you, old skeleton,
Or I’ll joggle your bones till they rattle like castanets.
(Suddenly releasing him.)
Come, Peter: let’s away from this mouldy gaol,
Before old heeltaps takes a fit. Your son
Will be a full-grown shepherd before we leave—
And his old mother, trapped between four walls—
If you don’t put a jerk in it.
(Peter comes slowly from the inner room, empty-handed; and stands, dazed, in the doorway.)
Bell:
Well, fumble-fingers?
What’s kept you this half-year? I could have burgled
The Bank of England in the time. What’s up?
Have you gone gite, now?