MRS. HARDCASTLE. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too
sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to
be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for
him?

HARDCASTLE. Latin for him! A cat and fiddle. No, no; the alehouse
and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I
believe we shan't have him long among us. Anybody that looks in his
face may see he's consumptive.

HARDCASTLE. Ay, if growing too fat be one of the symptoms.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. He coughs sometimes.

HARDCASTLE. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.

MRS. HARDCASTLE. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.

HARDCASTLE. And truly so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a
speaking trumpet--(Tony hallooing behind the scenes)--O, there he
goes--a very consumptive figure, truly.


Enter TONY, crossing the stage.


MRS. HARDCASTLE. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't you