Act III - Page 2

lor, Miss! that wur sa long back, and the walls sa thin, and the winders brokken, and the weather sa cowd, and my missus a-gittin' ower 'er lyin'-in.

DORA. Didn't I say that we had forgiven you? But, Dan Smith, they tell me that you--and you have six children--spent all your last Saturday's wages at the ale-house; that you were stupid drunk all Sunday, and so ill in consequence all Monday, that you did not come into the hayfield. Why should I pay you your full wages?

DAN SMITH. I be ready to taäke the pledge.

DORA. And as ready to break it again. Besides it was you that were driving the cart--and I fear you were tipsy then, too--when you lamed the lady in the hollow lane.

DAN SMITH (bellowing). O lor, Miss! noä, noä, noä! Ye sees the holler laäne be hallus sa dark i' the arternoon, and wheere the big eshtree cuts athurt it, it gi'es a turn like, and 'ow should I see to laäme the laädy, and meä coomin' along pretty sharp an' all?

DORA. Well, there are your wages; the next time you waste them at a pothouse you get no more from me. (Exit DAN SMITH.) Sally Allen, you worked for Mr. Dobson, didn't you?

SALLY (advancing). Yeäs, Miss; but he wur so rough wi' ma, I couldn't abide 'im.

DORA. Why should he be rough with you? You are as good as a man in the hayfield. What's become of your brother?

SALLY. 'Listed for a soädger, Miss, i' the Queen's Real Hard Tillery.

DORA. And your sweetheart--when are you and he to be married?

SALLY. At Michaelmas, Miss, please God.

DORA. You are an honest pair. I will come to your wedding.

SALLY. An' I thanks ye fur that, Miss, moor nor fur the waäge.

(Going--returns.)

'A cotched ma about the waäist, Miss, when 'e wur 'ere afoor, an' axed ma to be 'is little sweet-art, an soä I knaw'd 'im when I seed 'im ageän an I telled feyther on 'im.

DORA. What is all this, Allen?

ALLEN. Why, Miss Dora, meä and my maätes, us three, we wants to hev three words wi' ye.

HIGGINS. That be 'im, and meä, Miss.

JACKSON. An' meä, Miss.

ALLEN. An' we weänt mention naw naämes, we'd as lief talk o' the Divil afoor ye as 'im, fur they says the master goäs cleän off his 'eäd when he 'eärs the naäme on 'im; but us three, arter Sally'd telled us on 'im, we fun' 'im out a-walkin' i' West Field wi' a white 'at, nine o'clock, upo' Tuesday murnin', and all on us, wi' your leave, we wants to leather 'im.

DORA. Who?

ALLEN. Him as did the mischief here, five year' sin'.

DORA. Mr. Edgar?

ALLEN. Theer, Miss! You ha' naämed 'im--not me.

DORA. He's dead, man--dead; gone to his account--dead and buried.

ALLEN. I beä'nt sa sewer o' that, fur Sally knaw'd 'im; Now