this. But it is natural, everything will find its level. I sprang from poverty, and I return to it. Poor Pearl. How she must have wondered the next morning—Laura gone? But three months have passed, and they have forgotten me. Ray will cheer her. (Wrangling outside, Peachblossom bursts in dragging Bermudas, with his professional tape, pins, blacking and baskets, D. F.
Peach. Here he is m'm.
Ber. Leave go, I tell yer, or I'll make yer.
Laura. What is the matter?
Peach. He's the boy that sold me that stove polish what isn't stove polish.
Ber. What is it then—s-a-a-y?
Peach. It's mud! it's mud at ten pence a bottle.
Ber. Ah! Where could I get mud? Ain't the streets clean? Mud's dearer than stove polish now.
Peach. And your matches is wet, and your pins won't stick, and your shoe-strings is rotten, there now!
Ber. Well, how am I to live; it ain't my fault, it's the taxes. Ain't I got to pay my income tax, and how am I to pay it if I gives you your money's worth? Do you think I'm Stewart—Sa-a-y?
Laura. Do let the boy alone, Blossom. Send him away. (Enter Peanuts at door flat.)
Peanuts. Extra! Hollo, Bermudas! how's your sister? Papers, Miss. Extra! Revolution in Mexico!
Laura. Dear, dear, this is the way I'm worried from morning till night.
Ber. Here, just you get out! This is my beat.
Peanuts. Veil, I ain't blacking or hairpins now, I'm papers—How'm I hurting you?
Ber. Veil, I'm papers at four o'clock, and this is my beat. Take care of me, I'm in training for a fight. I'm a bruiser, I am.
Peanuts. Hold yer jaw. (they fight.)
Peach. (Beats them with broom.) Get out with you, Both of you.
Laura. Don't let be troubled in this way again. Have you got the things for dinner?
Peach. Lor, no, miss! It's twelve o'clock, and I forgot!
(Peach gets shawl, big bonnet from hooks on the wall, basket from closet, while Laura opens her pocket-book for money.)
Laura. What did we have for dinner yesterday, Blossom?
Peach. Beefsteak, 'm. Let's have some leg o' mutton to-day. We've never had that.
Laura. But I don;t know how to cook it. Do you?
Peach. No, but I'd just slap it on, and it's sure to come out right.
Laura. Slap it on what?
Peach. The gridiron.
Laura. (Giving money.) No, we'd better not try a leg of mutton to-day. Get some lamb chops, we know how to manage them.
Peach. (As she is going.) Taters, as usual, 'mum?
Laura. Yes; and stop Blossom—while you're buying the chops, just ask the butcher—off hand—you know—how he would cook a leg of mutton, if he were going to eat it himself!—as if you wanted to know for yourself.
Peach. Yes'm—but I'm sure it's just as good broiled a fried.
