The parasite of a worthless reprobate is what I am, the parasite of the Captain that carried the wench off from Samos with him. Now he has ordered me to call on her and inquire whether she intends to pay him back his money, or go along with him. (_scanning the houses_) Boy, you came along to the place with her a short time ago: whichever house it is here, knock. Up to the door with you directly: (_page obeys, knocking timidly_) recede hinc dierecte. ut pulsat propudium! comesse panem tris pedes latum potes, 580 fores pultare nescis. ecquis in aedibust? heus, ecquis his est? ecquis hoc aperit ostium? ecquis exit? Get out and be hanged to you! How the imp knocks! You can devour a loaf of bread three feet wide: as for knocking at a door, you don’t know how. (_pounds vigorously himself, and shouts_) Anyone at home? Hi! Anyone here? Anyone minding this door? Anyone coming? IV. 2. Scene 2. ENTER _Pistoclerus_ INTO DOORWAY. _Pistoc._ Quid istuc? quae istaec est pulsatio? [20]quae te mala crux agitat, qui ad istunc modum alieno viris tuas extentes ostio? fores paene exfregisti. quid nunc vis tibi? (_angrily_) What’s all this? What do you mean by pounding so? What the devil ails you, to test your strength on other people’s doors this way? You’ve nearly smashed it off. Now what are you after? _Par._ Adulescens, salve. (_somewhat cowed_) Good day, young gentleman. _Pistoc._ Salve, sed quem quaeritas? Good day. But who is it you’re looking for? _Par._ Bacchidem. Bacchis. _Pistoc._ Utram ergo? Well, which? _Par._ Nil scio nisi Bacchidem. paucis: me misit miles ad eam Cleomachus, vel ut ducentos Philippos reddat aureos 590 vel ut hinc in Elatiam hodie eat secum semul. Bacchis--that’s all I know. Briefly: Captain Cleomachus sent me to say she must either pay him back two hundred golden sovereigns, or else go along with him to-day to Elatea. _Pistoc._ Non it. negat se ituram. abi et renuntia. alium illa amat, non illum. due te ab aedibus. She is not going. She refuses to go. Away with you and report! It’s another man she loves, not him. March yourself off! _Par._ Nimis iracunde. (_soothingly_) You’re too irritable. _Pistoc._ At scin quam iracundus siem? ne tibi hercle haud longe est os ab infortunio, ita dentifrangibula haec meis manibus gestiunt. (_roaring_) But d’ye know how irritable? By the Lord, that face of yours is precious close to a calamity, the way these (_shaking his fists at parasite, who retreats_) tooth-crackers here are itching! _Par._ Cum ego huius verba interpretor, mihi cautiost, ne nucifrangibula excussit ex malis meis. tuo ego istaec igitur dicam illi periculo.