Mrs. Beetle. Oh dear, oh dear. That ’s somebody’s house, that is—We can’t put you there, my jewel. Oh, where ’s it gone to? Where ’s it gone to? My little pile—where ’s it gone to?
Tramp. Why, not ’arf a minute—
Mrs. Beetle. (Rushing at him) Thief—thief—What ’ave you done with my pile?
Tramp. I’m telling yer.
Mrs. Beetle. Here, give it back—yer wretch.
Tramp. Just this minute a gentleman rolled it away over there.
Mrs. Beetle. What gentleman? Who?
Tramp. A pot-bellied fellow, a fat, round chap.
Mrs. Beetle. My husband?
Tramp. A feller with an ugly mug and crooked feet.
Mrs. Beetle. That ’s my husband.
Tramp. His capital he said it was.
Mrs. Beetle. That ’s him—he must have found a hole—Husband—My precious—Darling! Where is the blasted fool?
Tramp. That ’s where he rolled it to.
Mrs. Beetle. Coo-eh Couldn’t he have called me? Husband, my precious ! I’ll learn yer—Our capital—our all—our little pile.[Exit.
Tramp. Them butterflies was gay
And foolish, yer might say:
But these ’ere beetles—lumme,
They do work, anyway!
So, ’ere ’s to wish ’em luck—
Though gatherin’ balls of muck
Is jest about as rummy
As anythink I’ve struck.
Chrysalis. O universe, prepare! O space, expand!
