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 Hommy [starts with surprise and then looks over spectacles quite scandalized]: Well, if ever–

Child: Drop it now. [Jumps out of cradle scattering shawls and wraps, Hommy gazing open-mouthed.] Smart now, Hommy–clear this place quick. [Picks up besom and pokes Hommy, finally chasing him into corner, and picking up fiddle in its green bag thrusts it at him.] Now then, tune up! Quick now–give us a quickstep.

Hommy [stopping suddenly]: Whisht! Whisht! Here’s Herself comin’! thank my stars! What in ever will she say!

Mrs. Gale [standing at door with hands uplifted]: What in all the world is the meaning of this?

Hommy [shamefacedly]: Aw, tryin’ to amuse the poor lil falla I was. Makin’ him laugh too, the clavver I was doin’ it. An’ jus’ hear how he’s frettin’ again now I’ve stopped. [Stands looking at Mrs. Gale, rubbing his chin.] I’m thinkin’–

Mrs. Fale [interrupting]: Well, don’t be thinkin’ then, but for goodness sake put a stitch on them duds.

Hommy: Well, but I’m sayin’–

Mrs. Gale: Will you take an’ be doin’ your work, an’ lave thinkin’ an’ sayin’ to the, as is eddicated according.

Hommy [despairingly]: Houl on, woman! Houl on there for a minute now!

Mrs. Gale: An’ what for am I to houl on, an’ the chile needin’ his mate?

Hommy [impressively]: Mrs. Gale, yondher falla is not no right wan at all.

Mrs. Gale: Aw, the dear me, Hommy! What do you mean?