_Pete_. Oh, mistis, dat yar sergeant ossifer--
Dat sassy un what call me "Woolly-bear."
An' kick my shin, he holler 'crass to me:--
"You, Pete, jes' you go in, an' tell Ma'am Secord
I'se comin' in ter supper wiv some frens."
He did jes' so--a sassy scamp.

_Mrs. Secord_. To-night? At this hour?

_Pete_. Yes, mistis; jes', jes' now. I done tell Flos
Ter put her bes' leg fus', fer I mus' go
An' ten' dat poo', sick hoss.

_Mrs. Secord_. Nay, you'll do nothing of the kind! You'll stay
And wait upon these men. I'll not have Flos
Left single-handed by your cowardice.

_Pete_. I aint a coward-ef I hed a club;
Dat poo', sick hoss--

_Mrs. Secord_. Nonsense! Go call me Flos, and see you play
no tricks to-night.

_Pete_. No, mistis, no; no tricks. [_Aside_. Ef I'd a club!]
_He calls from the door_: Flos! Flos! Ma'am Secord wants ye.

_Mrs. Secord (spreading a cloth upon the table)_. God help us if
these men much longer live
Upon our failing stores.