At The Sign of The Greedy Pig-Charles S. Brooks

the devil it appears keeps the longer hours the tavern window with curtain drawn is a shadow picture of two men drinking their brawling keg is as shallow as a stream in august the square is deserted presently after a final rattling of cups and tipsy gesture the window becomes dark the door opens and two figures emerge they cross the square homeward with a drag of tottering dignity the tapster puts out the lantern at the door of the greedy pig and sets the jangling chain good liquor it seems even in honest ancient times had need of a stout defence his candle mounts to a bedroom window thirst may now knock in vain its knuckles out of joint the tavern's front is dark a watchman comes tapping with his stick

four o'clock of an april night god's mercy all's well

it is a drawling voice like the chanting of a choir and ends in uncertain minor he holds up the lantern now and again to see that windows and doors are fast he hums softly to himself as a contented workman should

it's four o'clock of an april night yo ho for the devil in hell and all good folk are sleeping tight in the guard of the church tower bell

he mutters to himself

yo ho for the devil say i the old rascal likes music i sing to keep him contented so he won't snatch at me bolt shot chain fast here's a window up just asking thieves to climb in some folks are so careless i wonder they button themselves

he goes off about his business up the street the dawn comes now with blinking step from its sleepy bed there are streaks of light on the housetops the stars that we have set upon the heavens fade from sight even the comet disappears which has burned with evil fire above the gibbet the watchman's cry is heard faintly in the distance the square is in misty twilight the bell-ringer enters a fellow bent to the likeness of a hoop his keys rattle at his belt he selects a mighty key worthy of its office windsor's keep or louis fearful dungeons would yield to such a mass of metal he unlocks the door of the church and goes inside the morning at last in its tub of dew shakes off the night a cripple now shuffles up the street dragging a broken foot his name is twist a leg is bent and worthless and an arm is withered on the fashioning of his body the bale of commodities it seems had fallen to the sortings dame nature shopped as it were unwisely at the bargain counter and filled her basket with blemished wares his leg looks like a poor man's christmas stocking yet he is as we shall see a sly fellow and nimble in his wits he is the hero of our play unless the ballad-monger demands the title a likable little fellow and the very pith and substance of his nature is his sociability on this and his empty stomach our slim plot hangs we must make this clear in our dialogue twist swats on the steps of the church and disposes his deformity to the best business advantage for by profession he is a beggar he looks in his cup and shakes it sadly times with him are stagnant as we larger merchants say he wags his head despondently and rubs his empty stomach a group of peasants cross the stage at the rear bearing fruits and vegetables for the morning market there is a basket of yellow carrots and something with a wisp of whiskers that may be onions it is now broad day a bell far off across the city strikes the hour five another bell by a lagging second gives its different version of the time but the bell of our own church settles the dispute upon our trusted steeple it is evident the great round sun itself cocks its fiery ear for a certain reckoning to start the day three beggars enter the first is wimp who professes to be blind he wears black glasses or a patch his whining voice through years of practice melts the hardest heart he throws his exposed eye up to heaven as if he besought the angels to toss him down a penny the second beggar is blatt and he would have you think him deaf he carries a trumpet which on occasion he gives to his ear the third beggar is squeak and perhaps he is dumb for he makes a show of talking with his hands such sounds as he emits are shrill and rasping as if his gears were short of oil the blind man comes tapping with his stick each beggar carries a wallet and a cup their ragged clothes cry out for patch and needle presently squeak the dumb beggar discovers twist the cripple sitting on the steps of the church he pulls the deaf beggar by the sleeve and points with excited uplifted finger the beggars halt in angry consultation wimp as he squints beneath his patch

methinks i see twist the foul lazar sitting on our steps

it was but yesterday we clouted him for sitting there

there's not room for four

he squealed like a pig when i beat him off with your stick again i'll thrust him in the eye else he'll be getting coppers that should come to us

even a hard heart turns generous at the blessed hour of mass

master baggs who owns a brewhouse on the hill sometimes drops in a bit of silver it's when he's lifted the price of beer a penny to the court we'd have thin bellies if we did not beg upon the church steps

but master twist must sit in the gutter

his shrivelled armour rivals us

take my stick master blatt clout the dirty rogue make him roar for mercy all

three beggars advance on twist who pulls in his legs and looks up piteously

for the love of god good friends have pity on me

You foul speck.

You blot.

You filthy patch.

Make off, I say.

I can sit thin.

Good sir, so few pennies are thrown to the gutter.

For lack of food, I'm shrunk to a wizened apple, John.