(_Enter WASHINGTON WHITWELL, left, gun in hand. Slams door behind
him, advances on tiptoe, finger on trigger--glances around._)
WHITWELL. Wrong again. Not here. What can have become of the creature!
(_Sets gun down._) He certainly ran into this house! Egad! whose
house is it, by the way? Never saw a finer hare in my life. In all
my experience I never saw a finer hare! I couldn't have bought him
in the market under thirty cents. (_Rises._) He's cost me a pretty
penny, though. Up at six for a day's shooting. Dog starts a hare in ten
minutes. Aim! Hare goes off, gun don't. Bad cap. Off _I_ go, however,
hot foot after him. He runs into a thicket. Rustic appears. I hail him.
"Hallo, friend! A dollar if you'll start out that hare." A dollar for a
hare worth thirty cents! say thirty-five. Out he comes; dog after him.
Aim again. This time gun goes off, dog don't. Shot him. Worth forty
dollars. Total so far, forty-one dollars. Load again. Hare gives me a
run of five miles. Stop to rest; drop asleep. Wake up, and see hare not
ten yards away, munching a cabbage. Gun again, and after him. He jumps
over a fence; _I_ jump over a fence. He comes down on his fore-paws;
_I_ come down on my fore-paws. He recovers his equilibrium; I recover
mine (on the flat of my back). Suddenly I observe myself to be hunted
by an army of rustics, my dollar friend among them,--well-meaning
people, no doubt,--armed with flails, forks, harrows, and ploughs, and
greedy for my life. They shout; I run. And here I am, after smashing
fifty dollars' worth of glass and things! Total, including dog,
ninety-one dollars, not to mention fine for breaking melon-frames by
some miserable justice's court, say twenty dollars more! Grand total,
let me see: yes, a hundred and twenty dollars, more or less, for a
hare worth thirty-five cents! say forty. (_Noise outside._) Ha! no
rest for the wicked here. (_Picks up gun, rushes for door in flat--met
by CODDLE; runs to door at left--met by JANE._) Caught, by Jupiter!
(_Falls into a chair._)
CODDLE. We've got the villain. Seize him, Jane, seize him!
JANE. Surrender, young man, in the name of the Continental Congress.
(_Collars him, and takes away his gun._)
WHITWELL. This is a pretty fix.
CODDLE. How dare you, sir, violate my privacy? knock down my walls?
smash my melon-frames? fire your abominable gun under my window, sir?
JANE. Lord 'a' mercy! The young man might have killed me. Oh, you
assassinating wretch!
CODDLE. The police will have a few words to say to you before you're an
hour older, you burglar!
WHITWELL. The deuce!
CODDLE. What's your name, sir?
JANE. Ay, what's your name? Tell us that. This is a hanging matter, I'd
have you to know.
WHITWELL (_stammering_). My name? er--er--Whit--no--er--mat.
JANE (_shouts in CODDLE'S ear_). He says his name is Whittermat. Furrin
of course. Mercy! what an escape!
WHITWELL (_aside_). Good idea that. I'm a foreigner! I'll keep it up.
JANE. Didn't you hear me call to you, you man-slaughterer? Are you deaf?
WHITWELL (_aside_). Deaf! Another good idea. I'll keep _that_ up.
CODDLE. What does he say, Jane?
JANE. He don't say nothink, sir.
WHITWELL (_aside_). Now for it. May I ask for a bit of paper? (_Makes
signs of writing._)
CODDLE. What does the scamp say?
JANE (_shouts_). He wants some paper.
CODDLE. Paper! Impudent scoundrel! I'll paper him, and ink him too!