your dad's no more
Than three-parts mutton, with a strain of reynard--
A fox's heart, for all his weak sheep's head.
Lad, look well round on your ancestral halls:
You'll likely not clap eyes on them again.
I'm eager to be off: we don't seem welcome.
Your venerable grandsire is asleep,
Or else he's a deaf mute; though, likely enough,
That's how folk look, awake, at Krindlesyke.
I'd fancied we were bound for the Happy Return:
But we've landed at the Undertaker's Arms--
And after closing time, and all. You've done
That little business, Peter--though it's not bulged
Your pockets overmuch, that I can see?

PETER:
Just setting about it, when you interrupted ...

BELL:
Step lively, then. I find this welcome too warm
On such a sultry day: I'm choked for air.
These whitewashed walls, they're too like--well, you ken
Where you'll find yourself, if you get nobbled ...

PETER:
It seems
There's no one here to nab us; Jim's gone off:
But I'd as lief be through with it, and away,
Before my mother's back.

BELL:
You're safe enough:
There's none but sheep in sight for three miles round:
And they're all huddled up against the dykes,
With lollering tongues too baked to bleat "Stop thief!"
Look slippy! I'm half-scumfished by these walls--
A weak flame, easily snuffed out: the stink
Of whitewash makes me queasy--sets me listening
To catch the click of the cell-door behind me:
I feel cold bracelets round my wrists, already.
Is thon the strong-room?

PETER:
Ay.

BELL:
Then sharp's the word:
It's time that we were stepping, Deadwood Dick.

(_As PETER goes into the other room, EZRA tries to rise from his
chair._)

EZRA:
Help! Murder! Thieves!

BELL (_thrusting him easily back with one hand_):
The oracle has spoken.
And so, old image, you've found your tongue at last:
Small wonder you mislaid it, in such a mug.
Help, say you? But, you needn't bleat so loud:
There's none within three miles to listen to you,
But me and Peter and Michael; and we're not deaf:
So don't go straining your voice, old nightingale,
Or splitting your wheezy bellows. And "thieves," no less!
Tastes differ: but it isn't just the word
I'd choose for welcoming my son and heir,
When he comes home; and brings with him his--well,
His son, and his son's mother, shall we say,
So's not to scandalize your in