Woman.—Mábáp, beating my son-in-law is beating me! (Pleader hanging doum his head, barber looking daggers at his dear wife's mother, magistrate tittering, and soldier smiling.) The whole town knows it.
Magistrate.—Knows what?
Woman.—That Iam an honest woman!
Magistrate.—But, woman, that is not the question.
Woman.—That my Lakhi's father shaved you!
Magistrate (turning in disgust to the Pleader).—Mr. Rámrás, you see the defendant may have assaulted another person.
Pleader (taking up the cue).—Did you assault this gentleman barber? (Asking the soldier.)
Soldier.—Now, say ye so, my jewel!
Pleader (sententiously).—Weigh your words.
Soldier.—How kin I weigh my words?
Pleader.—Sir, have you come here to brandy words with me?
Soldier.—Do ye think so?
Pleader (furiously).—Now, hold out your tongue, Sir.
Pat seized this golden opportunity, and throwing a world of solemnity into his attitude, held out his tongue—a big, red, lolling thing—to the
