Chapter XIII: Act THE THIRD: Scene I (3)

“It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that has brought it me; I’m sure I don’t deserve it from him,” said Hal, to himself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, towards him, with his bow and arrows.

“Fall back, my good friend—fall back,” said the military lady, as soon as he had delivered the bow to Hal; “I mean, stand out of the way, for your great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don’t follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, pray.”

The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he _fell back_ as soon as he understood the meaning of the lady’s words. The drum beat, the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired. Hal stepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon his epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the time he was considered only as part of a show.

The walk appeared much shorter than usual, and he was extremely sorry that Lady Diana, when they were half-way up the hill leading to Prince’s Place, mounted her horse, because the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her followed her example.

“We can leave the children to walk, you know,” said she to the gentleman who helped her to mount her horse. “I must call to some of them, though, and leave orders where they are to _join_.”

She beckoned: and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity, ran on to receive her ladyship’s orders. Now, as we have before observed, it was a sharp and windy day; and though Lady Diana Sweepstakes was actually speaking to him, and looking at him, he could not prevent his nose from wanting to be blowed: he pulled out his handkerchief and out rolled the new ball which had been given to him just before he left home, and which, according to his usual careless habits, he had stuffed into his pockets in his hurry. “Oh, my new ball!” cried he, as he ran after it. As he stopped to pick it up, he let go his hat, which he had hitherto held on with anxious care; for the hat, though it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string round it. The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful hero had used in spinning his top. The hat was too large for his head without this band; a sudden gust of wind blew it off. Lady Diana’s horse started and reared. She was a _famous_ horse woman, and sat him to the admiration of all beholders; but there was a puddle of red clay and water in this spot, and her ladyship’s uniform habit was a sufferer by the accident. “Careless brat!” said she, “why can’t he keep his hat upon his head?” In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after it amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and the rest of the little regiment. The hat was lodged, at length, upon a bank. Hal pursued it: he thought this bank was hard, but, alas! the moment he set his foot upon it the foot sank. He tried to draw it back; his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and white uniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud. His companions, who had halted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing, spectators of his misfortune.

It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who had been ordered by Lady Diana to “fall back” and to “keep at a distance,” was now coming up the hill; and the moment he saw our fallen hero, he hastened to his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was a deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud. The obliging mistress of a lodging house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman was nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, received Hal, covered as he was with dirt.

The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham’s for clean stockings and shoes for Hal. He was unwilling to give up his uniform: it was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he kept continually repeating,—“When it’s dry it will all brush off—when it’s dry it will all brush off, won’t it?” But soon the fear of being too late at the archery meeting began to balance the dread of appearing in his stained habiliments; and he now as anxiously repeated, whilst the woman held the wet coat to the fire, “Oh, I shall be too late; indeed, I shall be too late; make haste; it will never dry; hold it nearer—nearer to the fire. I shall lose my turn to shoot; oh, give me the coat; I don’t mind how it is, if I can but get it on.”

Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure; but it shrunk it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat on again. However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes, which, in spite of all these operations, were too visible upon his shoulders, and upon the skirts of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observe that there was not one spot upon the facings. “Nobody,” said he, “will take notice of my coat behind, I daresay. I think it looks as smart almost as ever!”—and under this persuasion our young archer resumed his bow—his bow with green ribands, now no more!—and he pursued his way to the Downs.

All his companions were far out of sight. “I suppose,” said he to his friend with the black patch—“I suppose my uncle and Ben had left home before you went for the shoes and stockings for me?”

“Oh, yes, sir; the butler said they had been gone to the Downs a matter of a good half-hour or more.”

Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he got upon the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages, and crowds of people, all going towards the place of meeting at the Ostrich. He pressed forwards. He was at first so much afraid of being late, that he did not take notice of the mirth his motley appearance excited in all beholders. At length he reached the appointed spot. There was a great crowd of people. In the midst he heard Lady Diana’s loud voice betting upon someone who was just going to shoot at the mark.

“So then the shooting is begun, is it?” said Hal. “Oh, let me in! pray let me into the circle! I’m one of the archers—I am, indeed; don’t you see my green and white uniform?”

“Your red and white uniform, you mean,” said the man to whom he addressed himself; and the people, as they opened a passage for him, could not refrain laughing at the mixture of dirt and finery which it exhibited. In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their countenance and support. They were amongst the most unmerciful of the laughers. Lady Diana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his confusion.

“Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, man?” said she, in her masculine tone. “You have been almost the ruin of my poor uniform habit; but I’ve escaped rather better than you have. Don’t stand there, in the middle of the circle, or you’ll have an arrow in your eyes just now, I’ve a notion.”

Hal looked round in search of better friends. “Oh, where’s my uncle?—where’s Ben?” said he. He was in such confusion, that, amongst the number of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one from another; but he felt somebody at this moment pull his elbow, and, to his great relief, he heard the friendly voice, and saw the good natured face of his Cousin Ben.

“Come back; come behind these people,” said Ben, “and put on my great-coat; here it is for you.”

Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the rough great-coat which he had formerly despised. He pulled the stained, drooping cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now sufficiently recovered from his vexation to give an intelligible account of his accident to his uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had detained him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst of the history of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty that his taking the hatband to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune, and he was at the same time endeavouring to refute his uncle’s opinion that the waste of the whipcord that tied the parcel was the original cause of all his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his _famous_ bow.

“My hands are benumbed; I can scarcely feel,” said he, rubbing them, and blowing upon the ends of his fingers.

“Come, come,” cried young Sweepstakes, “I’m within one inch of the mark; who’ll go nearer? I shall like to see. Shoot away, Hal; but first understand our laws; we settled them before you came upon the green. You are to have three shots, with your own bow and your own arrows; and nobody’s to borrow or lend under pretence of other’s bows being better or worse, or under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal?”

This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these laws, as he had observed that none of his companions had such an excellent bow as he had provided for himself. Some of the boys had forgotten to bring more than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation that each person should shoot with their own arrows, many had lost one or two of their shots.

“You are a lucky fellow; you have your three arrows,” said young Sweepstakes. “Come, we can’t wait whilst you rub your fingers, man—shoot away.”

Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke. He little knew how easily acquaintance who call themselves friends can change when their interest comes in the slightest degree in competition with their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and with his hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes’ mark, which was the nearest that had yet been hit. Hal seized his second arrow. “If I have any luck—” said he. But just as he pronounced the word _luck_, and as he bent his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands.

“There, it’s all over with you!” cried Master Sweepstakes, with a triumphant laugh.

“Here’s my bow for him, and welcome,” said Ben.

“No, no, sir,” said Master Sweepstakes, “that is not fair; that’s against the regulation. You may shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must not lend it, sir.”

It was now Ben’s turn to make his trial. His first arrow was not successful. His second was exactly as near as Hal’s first. “You have but one more,” said Master Sweepstakes—“now for it!” Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string of his bow; and, as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked. Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exultations and insulting laughter. But his laughter ceased when our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whip cord.

“The everlasting whip cord, I declare!” exclaimed Hal, when he saw that it was the very same that had tied up the parcel. “Yes,” said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, “I put it into my pocket, to-day, on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it.” He drew his bow the third and last time.

“Oh, papa!” cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, “it’s the nearest; is it not the nearest?”

Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit. There could be no doubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to him; and Hal, as he looked at the whip-cord exclaimed, “How _lucky_ this whip-cord has been to you, Ben!”

“It is _lucky_, perhaps you mean, that he took care of it,” said Mr. Gresham.

“Ay,” said Hal, “very true; he might well say, ‘Waste not, want not.’ It is a good thing to have two strings to one’s bow.”

OLD POZ.

LUCY, _daughter to the Justice_.

MRS. BUSTLE, _landlady of the_ “_Saracen’s Head_.”

JUSTICE HEADSTRONG.

OLD MAN.

WILLIAM, _a Servant_.

SCENE I.

_The House of Justice Headstrong_—_a hall_—_Lucy watering some myrtles_—_A servant behind the scenes is heard to say_—

I TELL you my master is not up. You can’t see him, so go about your business, I say.

_Lucy_. To whom are you speaking, William? Who’s that?

_Will._ Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.

_Lucy_. Oh, then, don’t send him away—don’t send him away.

_Will._ But master has not had his chocolate, ma’am. He won’t ever see anybody before he drinks his chocolate, you know, ma’am.

_Lucy_. But let the old man, then, come in here. Perhaps he can wait a little while. Call him.

(_Exit Servant_.)

(_Lucy sings_, _and goes on watering her myrtles_; _the servant shows in
the Old Man_.)

_Will._ You can’t see my master this hour; but miss will let you stay here.

_Lucy_ (_aside_). Poor old man! how he trembles as he walks. (_Aloud_.) Sit down, sit down. My father will see you soon; pray sit down.

(_He hesitates_; _she pushes a chair towards him_.)

_Lucy_. Pray sit down.

(_He sits down_.)

_Old Man_. You are very good, miss; very good. (Lucy goes to her myrtles again.)

_Lucy_. Ah! I’m afraid this poor myrtle is quite dead—quite dead.

(_The Old Man sighs_, _and she turns round_.)

_Lucy_ (_aside_). I wonder what can make him sigh so! (_Aloud_.) My father won’t make you wait long.

_Old M._ Oh, ma’am, as long as he pleases. I’m in no haste—no haste. It’s only a small matter.

_Lucy_. But does a small matter make you sigh so?

_Old M._ Ah, miss; because, though it is a small matter in itself, it is not a small matter to me (_sighing again_); it was my all, and I’ve lost it.

_Lucy_. What do you mean? What have you lost?

_Old M._ Why, miss—but I won’t trouble you about it.

_Lucy_. But it won’t trouble me at all—I mean, I wish to hear it; so tell it me.

_Old M._ Why, miss, I slept last night at the inn here, in town—the “Saracen’s Head”—

_Lucy_ (_interrupts him_). Hark! there is my father coming downstairs; follow me. You may tell me your story as we go along.

_Old M._ I slept at the “Saracen’s Head,” miss, and—

(_Exit_, _talking_.)

SCENE II.

_Justice Headstrong’s Study_.

(_He appears in his nightgown and cap_, _with his gouty foot upon a stool_—_a table and chocolate beside him_—_Lucy is leaning on the arm of his chair_.)

_Just._ Well, well, my darling, presently; I’ll see him presently.

_Lucy_. Whilst you are drinking your chocolate, papa?

_Just._ No, no, no—I never see anybody till I have done my chocolate, darling. (_He tastes his chocolate_.) There’s no sugar in this, child.

_Lucy_. Yes, indeed, papa.

_Just._ No, child—there’s _no_ sugar, I tell you; that poz!

_Lucy_. Oh, but, papa, I assure you I put in two lumps myself.

_Just._ There’s _no_ sugar, I say; why will you contradict me, child, for ever? There’s no sugar, I say.

(_Lucy leans over him playfully_, _and with his teaspoon pulls out two
lumps of sugar_.)

_Lucy_. What’s this, papa?

_Just._ Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw!—it is not melted, child—it is the same as no sugar.—Oh, my foot, girl, my foot!—you kill me. Go, go, I’m busy. I’ve business to do. Go and send William to me; do you hear, love?

_Lucy_. And the old man, papa?

_Just._ What old man? I tell you what, I’ve been plagued ever since I was awake, and before I was awake, about that old man. If he can’t wait, let him go about his business. Don’t you know, child, I never see anybody till I’ve drunk my chocolate; and I never will, if it were a duke—that’s poz! Why, it has but just struck twelve; if he can’t wait, he can go about his business, can’t he?

_Lucy_. Oh, sir, he can wait. It was not he who was impatient. (She comes back playfully.) It was only I, papa; don’t be angry.

_Just._ Well, well, well (_finishing his cup of chocolate_, _and pushing his dish away_); and at anyrate there was not sugar enough. Send William, send William, child; and I’ll finish my own business, and then—

(_Exit Lucy_, _dancing_, “_And then_!—_and then_!”)

JUSTICE, _alone_.

_Just._ Oh, this foot of mine!—(_twinges_)—Oh, this foot! Ay, if Dr. Sparerib could cure one of the gout, then, indeed, I should think something of him; but, as to my leaving off my bottle of port, it’s nonsense; it’s all nonsense; I can’t do it; I can’t, and won’t, for all the Dr. Spareribs in Christendom; that’s poz!

_Enter_ WILLIAM.

_Just._ William—oh! ay! hey! what answer, pray, did you bring from the “Saracen’s Head”? Did you see Mrs. Bustle herself, as I bid you?

_Will._ Yes, sir, I saw the landlady herself; she said she would come up immediately, sir.

_Just._ Ah, that’s well—immediately?

_Will._ Yes, sir, and I hear her voice below now.

_Just._ Oh, show her up; show Mrs. Bustle in.

_Enter_ MRS. BUSTLE, _the landlady of the_ “_Saracen’s Head_.”

_Land._ Good morrow to your worship! I’m glad to see your worship look so purely. I came up with all speed (_taking breath_). Our pie is in the oven; that was what you sent for me about, I take it.

_Just._ True; true; sit down, good Mrs. Bustle, pray—

_Land._ Oh, your worship’s always very good (_settling her apron_). I came up just as I was—only threw my shawl over me. I thought your worship would excuse—I’m quite, as it were, rejoiced to see your worship look so purely, and to find you up so hearty—

_Just._ Oh, I’m very hearty (_coughing_), always hearty, and thankful for it. I hope to see many Christmas doings yet, Mrs. Bustle. And so our pie is in the oven, I think you say?

_Land._ In the oven it is. I put it in with my own hands; and if we have but good luck in the baking, it will be as pretty a goose-pie—though I say it that should not say it—as pretty a goose-pie as ever your worship set your eyes upon.

_Just._ Will you take a glass of anything this morning, Mrs. Bustle?—I have some nice usquebaugh.

_Land._ Oh, no, your worship!—I thank your worship, though, as much as if I took it; but I just took my luncheon before I came up; or more proper, _my sandwich_, I should say, for the fashion’s sake, to be sure. A _luncheon_ won’t go down with nobody nowadays (_laughs_). I expect hostler and boots will be calling for their sandwiches just now (_laughs again_). I’m sure I beg your worship’s pardon for mentioning a _luncheon_.

_Just._ Oh, Mrs. Bustle, the word’s a good word, for it means a good thing—ha! ha! ha! (_pulls out his watch_); but pray, is it luncheon time. Why, it’s past one, I declare; and I thought I was up in remarkably good time, too.

_Land._ Well, and to be sure so it was, remarkably good time for your worship; but folks in our way must be up betimes, you know. I’ve been up and about these seven hours!

_Just._ (_stretching_). Seven hours!

_Land._ Ay, indeed—eight, I might say, for I am an early little body; though I say it that should not say it—I _am_ an early little body.

_Just._ An early little body, as you say, Mrs. Bustle; so I shall have my goose-pie for dinner, hey?

_Land._ For dinner, as sure as the clock strikes four—but I mustn’t stay prating, for it may be spoiling if I’m away; so I must wish your worship a good morning. (_She curtsies_.)

_Just._ No ceremony—no ceremony; good Mrs. Bustle, your servant.

_Enter_ WILLIAM, _to take away the chocolate_. _The Landlady is putting
on her shawl_.

_Just._ You may let that man know, William, that I have dispatched my _own_ business, and am at leisure for his now (_taking a pinch of snuff_). Hum! pray, William (_Justice leans back gravely_), what sort of a looking fellow is he, pray?

_Will._ Most like a sort of travelling man, in my opinion, sir—or something that way, I take it.

(_At these words the landlady turns round inquisitively_, _and delays_,
_that she may listen_, _while she is putting on and pinning her shawl_.)

_Just._ Hum! a sort of a travelling man. Hum! lay my books out open at the title Vagrant; and, William, tell the cook that Mrs. Bustle promises me the goose-pie for dinner. Four o’clock, do you hear? And show the old man in now.

(_The Landlady looks eagerly towards the door_, _as it opens_, _and
exclaims_,)

_Land._ My old gentleman, as I hope to breathe!

_Enter the_ OLD MAN.

(_Lucy follows the Old Man on tiptoe_—_The Justice leans back and looks consequential_—_The Landlady sets her arms akimbo_—_The Old Man starts as he sees her_.)

_Just._ What stops you, friend? Come forward, if you please.

_Land._ (_advancing_). So, sir, is it you, sir? Ay, you little thought, I warrant ye, to meet me here with his worship; but there you reckoned without your host—Out of the frying-pan into the fire.

_Just._ What is all this? What is this?

_Land._ (_running on_). None of your flummery stuff will go down with his worship no more than with me, I give you warning; so you may go further and fare worse, and spare your breath to cool your porridge.

_Just._ (_waves his hand with dignity_). Mrs. Bustle, good Mrs. Bustle, remember where you are. Silence! silence! Come forward, sir, and let me hear what you have to say.

(_The Old Man comes forward_.)

_Just._ Who and what may you be, friend, and what is your business with me?

_Land._ Sir, if your worship will give me leave—

(_Justice makes a sign to her to be silent_).

_Old M._ Please, your worship, I am an old soldier.

_Land._ (_interrupting_). An old hypocrite, say.

_Just._ Mrs. Bustle, pray, I desire, let the man speak.

_Old M._ For these two years past—ever since, please your worship—I wasn’t able to work any longer; for in my youth I did work as well as the best of them.

_Land._ (_eager to interrupt_). You work—you—

_Just._ Let him finish his story, I say.

_Lucy_. Ay, do, do, papa, speak for him. Pray, Mrs. Bustle—

_Land._ (_turning suddenly round to Lucy_). Miss, a good morrow to you, ma’am. I humbly beg your apologies for not seeing you sooner, Miss Lucy.

(_Justice nods to the Old Man_, _who goes on_.)

_Old Man_. But please your worship, it pleased God to take away the use of my left arm; and since that I have never been able to work.

_Land._ Flummery! flummery!

_Just._ (_angrily_). Mrs. Bustle, I have desired silence, and I will have it, that’s poz! You shall have your turn presently.

_Old M._ For these two years past (for why should I be ashamed to tell the truth?) I have lived upon charity, and I scraped together a guinea and a half and upwards, and I was travelling with it to my grandson, in the north, with him to end my days—but (_sighing_)—

_Just._ But what? Proceed, pray, to the point.

_Old M._ But last night I slept here in town, please your worship, at the “Saracen’s Head.”

_Land._ (_in a rage_). At the “Saracen’s Head”! Yes, forsooth! none such ever slept at the “Saracen’s Head” afore, or shall afterwards, as long as my name’s Bustle, and the “Saracen’s Head” is the “Saracen’s Head.”

_Just._ Again! again! Mrs. Landlady, this is downright—I have said you should speak presently. He _shall_ speak first, since I’ve said it—that’s poz! Speak on, friend. You slept last night at the “Saracen’s Head.”

_Old M._ Yes, please your worship, and I accuse nobody; but at night I had my little money safe, and in the morning it was gone.

_Land._ Gone!—gone, indeed, in my house! and this is the way I’m to be treated! Is it so? I couldn’t but speak, your worship, to such an inhuman like, out o’ the way, scandalous charge, if King George and all the Royal Family were sitting in your worship’s chair, beside you, to silence me (_turning to the Old Man_). And this is your gratitude, forsooth! Didn’t you tell me that any hole in my house was good enough for you, wheedling hypocrite? And the thanks I receive is to call me and mine a pack of thieves.

_Old M._ Oh, no, no, no, _No_—a pack of thieves, by no means.

_Land._ Ay, I thought when _I_ came to speak we should have you upon your marrow-bones in—

_Just._ (_imperiously_). Silence! Five times have I commanded silence, and five times in vain; and I won’t command anything five times in vain—_that’s poz_!

_Land._ (_in a pet_, _aside_). Old Poz! (_aloud_). Then, your worship, I don’t see any business I have to be waiting here; the folks want me at home (returning and whispering). Shall I send the goose-pie up, your worship, if it’s ready?

_Just._ (_with magnanimity_). I care not for the goose-pie, Mrs. Bustle. Do not talk to me of goose-pies; this is no place to talk of pies.

_Land._ Oh, for that matter, your worship knows best, to be sure.

(_Exit Landlady_, _angry_.)

SCENE III.

JUSTICE HEADSTRONG, OLD MAN _and_ LUCY.

_Lucy._ Ah, now, I’m glad he can speak; now tell papa; and you need not be afraid to speak to him, for he is very good-natured. Don’t contradict him, though, because he told _me_ not.

_Just._ Oh, darling, _you_ shall contradict me as often as you please—only not before I’ve drunk my chocolate, child—hey! Go on, my good friend; you see what it is to live in Old England, where, thank Heaven, the poorest of His Majesty’s subjects may have justice, and speak his mind before the first in the land. Now speak on; and you hear she tells you that you need not be afraid of me. Speak on.

_Old M._ I thank your worship, I’m sure.

_Just._ Thank me! for what, sir? I won’t be thanked for doing justice, sir; so—but explain this matter. You lost your money, hey, at the “Saracen’s Head”? You had it safe last night, hey?—and you missed it this morning? Are you sure you had it safe at night?

_Old M._ Oh, please your worship, quite sure; for I took it out and looked at it just before I said my prayers.

_Just._ You did—did ye so?—hum! Pray, my good friend, where might you put your money when you went to bed?

_Old M._ Please, your worship, where I always put it—always—in my tobacco-box.

_Just._ Your tobacco-box! I never heard of such a thing—to make a _strong box_ of a tobacco-box. Ha! ha! ha! hum!—and you say the box and all were gone in the morning?

_Old M._ No, please your worship, no; not the box—the box was never stirred from the place where I put it. They left me the box.

_Just._ Tut, tut, tut, man!—took the money and left the box? I’ll never believe _that_! I’ll never believe that anyone could be such a fool. Tut, tut! the thing’s impossible! It’s well you are not upon oath.

_Old M._ If I were, please your worship, I should say the same; for it is the truth.

_Just._ Don’t tell me, don’t tell me; I say the thing is impossible.

_Old M._ Please, your worship, here’s the box.

_Just._ (_goes on without looking at it_). Nonsense! nonsense! it’s no such thing; it’s no such thing, I say—no man would take the money and leave the tobacco-box. I won’t believe it. Nothing shall make me believe it ever—that’s poz.

_Lucy_ (_takes the box_, _and holds it up before her father’s eyes_). You did not see the box, did you, papa!

_Just._ Yes, yes, yes, child—nonsense! it’s all a lie from beginning to end. A man who tells one lie will tell a hundred. All a lie! all a lie!

_Old M._ If your worship would give me leave—

_Just._ Sir, it does not signify—it does not signify! I’ve said it, I’ve said it, and that’s enough to convince me, and I’ll tell you more; if my Lord Chief Justice of England told it to me, I would not believe it—that’s poz!

_Lucy_ (_still playing with the box_). But how comes the box here, I wonder?

_Just._ Pshaw! pshaw! pshaw! darling. Go to your dolls, darling, and don’t be positive—go to your dolls, and don’t talk of what you don’t understand. What can you understand, I want to know, of the law?

_Lucy_. No, papa, I didn’t mean about the law, but about the box; because, if the man had taken it, how could it be here, you know, papa?

_Just._ Hey, hey, what? Why, what I say is this, that I don’t dispute that that box, that you hold in your hands, is a box; nay, for aught I know, it may be a tobacco-box—but it’s clear to me that if they left the box they did not take the money; and how do you dare, sir, to come before Justice Headstrong with a lie in your mouth; recollect yourself—I’ll give you time to recollect yourself.

(_A pause_.)

_Just._ Well, sir; and what do you say now about the box?

_Old M._ Please, your worship, with submission, I _can_ say nothing but what I said before.

_Just._ What, contradict me again, after I gave you time to recollect yourself! I’ve done with you; I have done. Contradict me as often as you please, but you cannot impose upon me; I defy you to impose upon me!

_Old M._ Impose!

_Just._ I know the law!—I know the law!—and I’ll make you know it, too. One hour I’ll give you to recollect yourself, and if you don’t give up this idle story, I’ll—I’ll commit you as a vagrant—that’s poz! Go, go, for the present. William, take him into the servants’ hall, do you hear?—What, take the money and leave the box? I’ll never do it—that’s poz!

(_Lucy speaks to the Old Man as he is going off_.)

_Lucy_. Don’t be frightened! don’t be frightened!—I mean, you tell the truth, never be frightened.

_Old M._ _If_ I tell the truth—(_turning up his eyes_).

(_Old Man is still held back by the young lady_.)

_Lucy_. One moment—answer me one question—because of something that just came into my head. Was the box shut fast when you left it?

_Old M._ No, miss, no!—open—it was open; for I could not find the lid in the dark—my candle went out. _If_ I tell the truth—oh!

(_Exit_.)

SCENE IV.

_Justice’s Study_—_the Justice is writing_.

_Old M._ Well!—I shall have but few days’ more misery in this world!

_Just._ (_looks up_). Why! why—why then, why will you be so positive to persist in a lie? Take the money and leave the box! Obstinate blockhead! Here, William (_showing the committal_), take this old gentleman to Holdfast, the constable, and give him this warrant.

_Enter_ LUCY, _running_, _out of breath_.

_Lucy_. I’ve found it! I’ve found it! Here, old man; here’s your money—here it is all—a guinea and a half, and a shilling and a sixpence, just as he said, papa.

_Enter_ LANDLADY.

_Land._ Oh la! your worship, did you ever hear the like?

_Just._ I’ve heard nothing yet that I can understand. First, have you secured the thief, I say?

_Lucy_ (_makes signs to the landlady to be silent_). Yes, yes, yes!—we have him safe—we have him prisoner. Shall he come in, papa?

_Just._ Yes, child, by all means; and now I shall hear what possessed him to leave the box. I don’t understand—there’s something deep in all this; I don’t understand it. Now I do desire, Mrs. Landlady, nobody may speak a single word whilst I am cross-examining the thief.

(_Landlady puts her finger upon her lips_—_Everybody looks eagerly
towards the door_.)

_Re-enter_ LUCY, _with a huge wicker cage in her hand_, _containing a magpie_—_The Justice drops the committal out of his hand_.

_Just._ Hey!—what, Mrs. Landlady—the old magpie? hey?

_Land._ Ay, your worship, my old magpie. Who’d have thought it? Miss was very clever; it was she caught the thief. Miss was very clever.

_Old M._ Very good! very good!

_Just._ Ay, darling, her father’s own child! How was it, child? Caught the thief, _with the mainour_, hey? Tell us all; I will hear all—that’s poz!

_Lucy_. Oh! then first I must tell you how I came to suspect Mr. Magpie. Do you remember, papa, that day last summer, when I went with you to the bowling-green, at the “Saracen’s Head”?

_Land._ Oh, of all days in the year! but I ask pardon, miss.

_Lucy_. Well, that day I heard my uncle and another gentleman telling stories of magpies hiding money; and they laid a wager about this old magpie and they tried him—they put a shilling upon the table, and he ran away with it, and hid it; so I thought that he might do so again, you know, this time.

_Just._ Right, right. It’s a pity, child, you are not upon the Bench; ha! ha! ha!

_Lucy_. And when I went to his old hiding place, there it was; but you see, papa, he did not take the box.

_Just._ No, no, no! because the thief was a magpie. No _man_ would have taken the money and left the box. You see I was right; no _man_ would have left the box, hey?

_Lucy_. Certainly not, I suppose; but I’m so very glad, old man, that you have obtained your money.

_Just._ Well then, child, here—take my purse, and add that to it. We were a little too hasty with the committal—hey?

_Land._ Ay, and I fear I was, too; but when one is touched about the credit of one’s house, one’s apt to speak warmly.

_Old M._ Oh, I’m the happiest old man alive! You are all convinced that I told you no lies. Say no more—say no more. I am the happiest man! Miss, you have made me the happiest man alive! Bless you for it!

_Land._ Well now, I’ll tell you what. I know what I think—you must keep that there magpie, and make a show of him, and I warrant he’ll bring you many an honest penny; for it’s a _true story_, and folks would like to hear it, I hopes—

_Just._ (_eagerly_). And, friend, do you hear? you’ll dine here to-day, you’ll dine here. We have some excellent ale. I will have you drink my health—that’s poz!—hey? You’ll drink my health, won’t you—hey?

_Old M._ (_bows_). Oh! and the young lady’s, if you please.

_Just._ Ay, ay, drink her health—she deserves it. Ay, drink my darling’s health.

_Land._ And please your worship, it’s the right time, I believe, to speak of the goose-pie now; and a charming pie it is, and it’s on the table.

_Will._ And Mr. Smack, the curate, and Squire Solid, and the doctor, sir, are come, and dinner is upon the table.

_Just._ Then let us say no more; but do justice immediately to the goose-pie; and, darling, put me in mind to tell this story after dinner.

(_After they go out_, _the Justice stops_.)

“Tell this story”—I don’t know whether it tells well for me; but I’ll never be positive any more—_that’s poz_!

THE MIMIC.