George Baker - Poison

Charles. Here are your letters, Mr. Twitters. I assure you —

Twitters. I like your little game, Charles, I like it. Perhaps Clara’ll like it, too, you young Machiavelli. Now don’t pretend you didn’t come to see her. Six thousand in, by Jove. I must sell out Harshaw as soon as I get to town. Bottom’s sure to fall out of it. ( Enter Clara with watering pot .)

Clara. Good morning, papa dear, ( kisses him. ) Why, Dr. Squillcox, are you here?

Twitters. As if you didn’t expect him.

Clara. How can you say such things, papa?

Charles. Yes, Mr. Twitters, it’s most unjust —

Clara. If I had expected anybody, should I have brought in this great, heavy watering-pot?

Charles. Can’t I hold it Miss Clara? ( takes it. )

Clara. I was going to water my flowers in the garden.

Twitters. Go along, my dear: and go along with her, you rascal. ( Laughs. Exeunt Charles and Clara laughing .)

Twitters ( rubbing his hands ). There they go. It does my heart good to think that my little Clara has such a good fellow to look after her; and that I can act as the ways and means committee. I’ll take care that their love shan’t fly out of the window. ( Opens letter. ) Here’s the plumber’s bill. Old Faucet will be rolling in his carriage soon. If Charles gets tired of medicine I’ll set him up as a plumber. ( Opens another letter. ) Clara’s milliner’s bill. Egad! how Charles’ eyes would open, if they tried love in a cottage on his professional outcome. Hollo! What’s this? Shabby looking letter addressed in a shabby hand. Another bill, I suppose. No. What’s this? ( Reads.

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