PETER (_wresting the stick from EZRA’s grasp_): Easy on! Peter’s no lad to take a leathering, now. Your time’s come round for breeches down, old boy: But don’t be scared; for I’m no walloper-- Too like hard work! My son’s a clean white skin: He’s never skirled, as you made me. By gox, You gave me gip: my back still bears the stripes Of the loundering I got the night I left. But I bear no malice, you old bag-of-bones: And where’s the satisfaction in committing Assault and battery on a blasted scarecrow? ’Twas basting hot young flesh that you enjoyed: I still can hear you smack your lips with relish, To see the blue weals rising, as you laid on, Until the tawse was bloody. Not juice enough In your geyzened carcase to raise one weal: and I never Could bear the sound of cracking bones: and you’re All nobs and knuckles, like the parson’s pig. To think I feared you once, old spindleshanks! But I’m not here for paying compliments: I’ve other pressing business on that brings me To the God-forsaken gaol where I was born. If I make sense of your doting, mother’s out: And that’s as well: it makes things easier. She’d flufter me: and I like to take things easy, Though I’m no sneak: I come in, bold as brass, By the front, when there’s no back door. I’ll do the trick While she’s gone: and borrow a trifle on account. I trust that cuddy hasn’t cropt your cashbox, Before your eldest son has got his portion. (_He starts to go towards the inner room, but stops half-way as he hears a step on the threshold._) PETER: The devil! _BELL HAGGARD, a tall young tinker-woman, with an orange-coloured kerchief about her head, appears in the doorway with her young son, MICHAEL._ PETER: You, Bell? Lass, but you startled me. EZRA (_muttering to himself_): This must be death: the crows are gathering in. I don’t feel like cold carrion, but corbies will gather, And flesh their bloody beaks on an old ram’s carcase, Before the life’s quite out. PETER (_to BELL_): I feared ’twas mother. Lucky, she’s out; it’s easier to do-- Well, you ken what, when she’s ... But didn’t I bid You keep well out of sight, you and the lad? BELL: You did. What then? PETER: I thought ’twas better the bairn ... BELL: You think too much for a man with a small head: You’ll split the scalp, some day. I’ve not been used To doing any man’s bidding, as you should ken: And I’d a mind to see the marble halls You dreamt you dwelt in. PETER: Hearken, how she gammons! BELL: She--the cat’s mother? You’ve no manners, Peter: You haven’t introduced us. PETER: Only hark! Well, dad, she’s Bell--Bell Haggard, tinker-born-- She’ll tell you she’s blood-royal, likely as not-- And this lad happens to be hers and mine, Somehow, though we’re not married.