BELL (_thrusting him easily back with one hand_): The oracle has spoken. And so, old image, you’ve found your tongue at last: Small wonder you mislaid it, in such a mug. Help, say you? But, you needn’t bleat so loud: There’s none within three miles to listen to you, But me and Peter and Michael; and we’re not deaf: So don’t go straining your voice, old nightingale, Or splitting your wheezy bellows. And “thieves,” no less! Tastes differ: but it isn’t just the word I’d choose for welcoming my son and heir, When he comes home; and brings with him his--well, His son, and his son’s mother, shall we say, So’s not to scandalize your innocence? And, come to think, it’s none too nice a word For grandson’s ears: and me, his tender mammy, Doing all I can to keep the lamb’s heart pure. And as for “murder”--how could there be murder? Murder’s full-blooded--no mean word like “thieves”: And who could murder a bundle of dried peas-sticks? Flung on the fire, happen they’d crackle and blaze: But I’m hot enough, to-day, without you frizzling. Still, “thieves” sticks in my gullet, old heel-of-the-loaf. Yet I’m not particular, myself, at times: And I’ve always gathered from your dutiful son Manners were taken for granted at Krindlesyke, And never missed: so I’ll overlook the word. You’ve not been used to talking with a lady, Old scrag-end: still, I’m truly honoured, sir, In making your acquaintance: for I’ve heard Some pretty things about you from your son. (_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? EZRA (_still chuckling_): Thieves cheated by a thief! BELL: But, where’s the box? PETER: I didn’t see the box. BELL: You didn’t see it? PETER: No; I didn’t see it: The valance hangs too low.