BELL: What a fashion To introduce a boy to his grandfather-- And such a dear, respectable old sheep’s head! (_to MICHAEL_) Look well on granddad, son, and see what comes Of minding sheep. MICHAEL: I mean to be a shepherd. BELL: Well, you’ve a knack of getting your own way: But, tripe and trotters, you can look on him, And still say that? Ay, you’re his grandson, surely-- All Barrasford, with not a dash of Haggard, No drop of the wild colt’s blood. Ewe’s milk you’d bleed If your nose were tapped. Who’d ever guess my dugs Had suckled you? Even your dad’s no more Than three-parts mutton, with a strain of reynard-- A fox’s heart, for all his weak sheep’s head. Lad, look well round on your ancestral halls: You’ll likely not clap eyes on them again. I’m eager to be off: we don’t seem welcome. Your venerable grandsire is asleep, Or else he’s a deaf mute; though, likely enough, That’s how folk look, awake, at Krindlesyke. I’d fancied we were bound for the Happy Return: But we’ve landed at the Undertaker’s Arms-- And after closing time, and all. You’ve done That little business, Peter--though it’s not bulged Your pockets overmuch, that I can see? PETER: Just setting about it, when you interrupted ... BELL: Step lively, then. I find this welcome too warm On such a sultry day: I’m choked for air. These whitewashed walls, they’re too like--well, you ken Where you’ll find yourself, if you get nobbled ... PETER: It seems There’s no one here to nab us; Jim’s gone off: But I’d as lief be through with it, and away, Before my mother’s back. BELL: You’re safe enough: There’s none but sheep in sight for three miles round: And they’re all huddled up against the dykes, With lollering tongues too baked to bleat “Stop thief!” Look slippy! I’m half-scumfished by these walls-- A weak flame, easily snuffed out: the stink Of whitewash makes me queasy--sets me listening To catch the click of the cell-door behind me: I feel cold bracelets round my wrists, already. Is thon the strong-room? PETER: Ay. BELL: Then sharp’s the word: It’s time that we were stepping, Deadwood Dick. (_As PETER goes into the other room, EZRA tries to rise from his chair._) EZRA: Help! Murder! Thieves!