[_Exit._ Sir _Fran._ I must do as you command me, Sir. Miss _Petty._ This uncle _Richard_, papa, seems but a crusty sort of an old fellow. Sir _Fran._ He is a little odd, child, but you must be very civil to him, for he has a great deal of money, and nobody knows who he may give it to. Lady _Head._ Phu, a fig for his money; you have so many projects of late about money, since you are a parliament man, we must make ourselves slaves to his testy humours, seven years, perhaps, in hopes to be his heirs; and then, he'll be just old enough to marry his maid. But pray let us take care of our things here: Are they all brought in yet? Mrs. _Han._ Almost, my lady, there are only some of the band-boxes behind, and a few odd things. Lady _Head._ Let 'em be fetcht in presently. Mrs. _Han._ They are here; come bring the things in: Is there all yet? _Serv._ All but the great basket of apples and the goose-pye. _Enter ~Cookmaid~._ _Cook._ Ah my Lady! we're aw undone, the goose-pye's gwon. _All._ Gone? Sir _Fran._ The goose-pye gone? how? _Cook._ Why, Sir, I had got it fast under my arm to bring it in, but being almost dark, up comes two of these thin starv'd _London_ rogues, one gives me a great kick o' the----here; [_Laying her hand upon her backside._] while t'other hungry varlet twitch'd the dear pye out of my hands, and away they run dawn street like two grayhounds. I cry'd out fire! but heavy _George_ and fat _Tom_ are after 'em with a vengeance; they'll sauce their jackets for 'em, I'll warrant 'em. _Enter ~George~ with a bloody face, and ~Tom~._ So, have you catch'd 'em? _Geo._ Catch'd 'em! the gallows catch 'em for me. I had naw run half the length of our beam, before somewhat fetch me such a wherry across the shins, that dawn came I flop o' my face all along in the channel, and thought I shou'd ne'er ha gotten up again; but _Tom_ has skawar'd after them, and cried murder as he'd been stuck. _Tom._ Yes, and straight upo' that, swap comes somewhat across my forehead, with such a force, that dawn came I like an ox. Squire _Humph._ So, the poor pye's quite gone then. _Tom._ Gone, young measter, yeaten, I believe by this time. These, I suppose, are what they call sharpers in this country. Squire _Humph._ It was a rare good pye. _Cook._ As e'er these hands put pepper to. Lady _Head._ Pray, Mrs. _Motherly_, do they make a practice of these things often here? Mrs. _Moth._ Madam, they'll twitch a rump of beef out of a boiling copper: and for a silver tankard, they make no more conscience of than if it were a _Tunbridge_ sugar box. Sir _Fran._ I wish the coach and horses, _George_, were safe got to the inn. Do you and _Roger_ take special care that nobody runs away with them, as you go thither. _Geo._ I believe, Sir, our cattle won't yeasily be run away with to-night; but wee'st take best care we con of them, poor sauls!