Ay, Jim--
No other, Judith. I’ll be bound you weren’t
Just looking to see me: you seem overcome
By the unexpected pleasure. Your pardon, mistress,
If I intrude. By crikes! But I’m no ghost
To set you adither: you don’t see anything wrong--
No, no! What should you see? I startled you.
Happen I look a wee bit muggerishlike--
A ragtag hipplety-clinch: but I’ve been travelling
Mischancy roads; and I’m fair muggert-up.
Yet, why should that stagnate you? Where’s the sense
Of expecting a mislucket man like me
To be as snod and spruce as a young shaver?
But I’m all right: there’s naught amiss with Jim,
Except too much of nothing in his belly.
A good square meal, and a pipe, and a decent night’s rest,
And I’ll be fit as a fiddle. I’ve hardly slept ...
Well, now I’m home, I’ll make myself at home.

(_He seizes the loaf of bread from the table; hacks off a hunch with his
jack-knife; and wolfs it ravenously._)

JUDITH:
Home? You’ve come home, Jim?

JIM:
Nay, I’m my own fetch!
God’s truth! there’s little else but skin and bone
Beneath these tatters: just a two-legged boggart,
With naught but wind to fill my waim--small wonder