Peter:
Ay, my mother, or her fetch.
I couldn’t take my eyes from that hunched shoulder—
It looked so queer—till you called my name.
Bell:
You said
Your mother was out. But, we’ve no time to potter.
To think I’ve borne a son to a calf that’s fleyed
Of a sleeping woman’s back—his minney’s, and all!
Collops and chitterlings, if she’s asleep,
The job’s the easier done. There’s not a woman,
Or a woman’s fetch, would scare me from good gold.
I’ll get the box.
(She steals softly into the other room, and is gone for some time. The others await her expectantly in silence. Presently she comes out bareheaded and empty-handed. Without a word, she goes to the window, and pulls down the blind; then closes the outer door: Peter and Michael watching her in amazement.)
Ezra:
So Jim, the fox, has cheated Peter, the fox—
And vixen and cub, to boot! But, he made off
Only this morning: and the scent’s still fresh.
You’ll ken the road he’d take, the fox’s track—
A thief to catch a thief! He’s lifted all:
But, if you cop him, I’ll give you half, although
’Twill scarcely leave enough to bury us
With decency, when we have starved to death,
Your mother and I. Run, lad: there’s fifty-sovereign!
And mind you clout and clapperclaw the cull:
Spanghew his jacket, when you’ve riped his pockets—
The scurvy scrunt!
Bell:
Silence, old misery:
There’s a dead woman lying in the house—
And you can prate of money!
Peter: