Produced by Neville Allen,Malcolm Farmer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. VOLUME 98. MARCH 29, 1890. * * * * * MR. PUNCH'S MORAL MUSIC-HALL DRAMAS. No. IX.--UNDER THE HARROW. _A Conventional Comedy-Melodrama, in two Acts._ CHARACTERS. SIR POSHBURY PUDDOCK (_a haughty and high-minded Baronet_). VERBENA PUDDOCK (_his Daughter_). LORD BLESHUGH (_her Lover_). SPIKER (_a needy and unscrupulous Adventurer_). BLETHERS (_an ancient and attached Domestic_). ACT I.--SCENE--_The Morning Room, at Natterjack Hall, Toadley-le-Hole; large window open at back, with heavy practicable sash._ [Illustration] _Enter_ BLETHERS. _Blethers._ Sir POSHBURY'S birthday to-day--his birthday!--and the gentry giving of him presents. Oh, Lor! if they only knew what _I_ could tell 'em!... Ah, and _must_ tell, too, before long--but not yet--not yet! [_Exit._ _Enter_ Lord BLESHUGH _and_ VERBENA. _Verb._ Yes, Papa is forty to-day; (_innocently_) fancy living to _that_ age! The tenants have presented him with a handsome jar of mixed pickles, with an appropriate inscription. Papa is loved and respected by every one. And I--well, I have made him a little housewife, containing needles and thread.... See! [_Shows it._ _Lord Blesh. (tenderly)._ I say, I--I wish you would make _me_ a little housewife! [_Comedy love-dialogue omitted owing to want of space._ _Verb._ Oh, do look!--there's Papa crossing the lawn with, oh, such a horrid man following him! _Lord B._ Regular bounder. Shocking bad hat! _Verb._ Not so bad as his boots, and _they_ are not so bad as his face! Why doesn't Papa order him to go away? Oh, he is actually inviting him in! _Enter_ Sir POSHBURY, _gloomy and constrained, with_ SPIKER, _who is jaunty, and somewhat over-familiar_. _Spiker (sitting on the piano, and dusting his boots with a handkerchief)._ Cosy little shanty you've got here, PUDDOCK--very tasty! _Sir P. (with a gulp)._ I am--ha--delighted that you approve of it! Ah, VERBENA! [_Kisses her on forehead._ _Spiker._ Your daughter, eh? Pooty gal. Introduce me. [_Sir_ POSH. _introduces him--with an effort_. _Verbena. (coldly)._ How do you do? Papa, did you know that the sashline of this window was broken? If it is not mended, it will fall on somebody's head, and perhaps kill him! _Sir. P. (absently)._ Yes--yes, it shall be attended to; but leave us, my child, go. BLESHUGH, this--er--gentleman and I have business of importance to discuss. _Spiker._ Don't let us drive you away, Miss; your Pa and me are only talking over old times, that's all--eh, POSH? _Sir P. (in a tortured aside)._ Have a care, Sir, don't drive me too far! (_To_ VERB.) Leave us, I say. (Lord B. and VERB. _go out, raising their eyebrows_.) Now, Sir, what is this secret you profess to have discovered?