I’ll throw you and the pieces down those stairs, catamount!

Eben. (Aside.) O, this won’t do. (Aloud.) I beg your pardon, Mr. Claptrap.

Clap. Clapboard, sir.

Eben. Mr. Clapboard, I was a little hasty. You must attribute it to the anxiety of a devoted parent. I have a son.

Clap. So I understand.

Eben. A week ago he left the parental mansion, for the purpose, as he said, of recruiting himself at a quiet place in the country. All very well, of course. I could bring nothing to say against that; but yesterday I received an anonymous note, mailed at this place, bidding me look out for my son, who, the note said, had formed a tender attachment. Do you hear?—a tender attachment!

Clap. Well, what of it?

Eben. What of it? Hear the man! Sir! Mr. Claptrap!

Clap. Clapboard, sir.

Eben. Mr. Clapboard. Ten years ago I retired from the soap and candle business with a fortune. This boy is my only son; young, impulsive, thoughtless, he has come to the country; his susceptible heart is a target, at which a thousand loving glances will be thrown by the eyes of rural beauties—

Clap. Humbug! There isn’t a female within three miles of the place. This is called “Bachelors’ Paradise.” There’s Jobson’s house, Seymour’s, and mine; specially erected for the convenience of artists, fishermen, and such like gentry, who want a quiet place in the country.

Eben. Is it possible! Then my son’s tender attachment—

Clap. It’s some trick played to frighten you.

Eben. Perhaps it is, but I have my doubts. Who lodges in this house besides my son?

Clap. Well, sir, on the floor below, there’s Mr. Timothy Tinpan, a nice, gentlemanly—tinker.

Eben. A tinker?—(Aside.) Bachelors’ Paradise! (Aloud.) Gentlemanly humbug! Who else?

Clap. The next floor above is occupied by Mr. Peter Picket, a military gentleman, who served his country in the great rebellion.

Eben. A soldier! (Noise outside.) What’s that?

Clap. That’s him. He’s always going through his tactics. He dropped his gun.

Eben. Did he! Then Mr. Peter Picket had better pick it up. Well, who else?

Clap. Next above him is Mr. Oakum, a well-mannered mariner, engaged in the lumber trade.

Eben. Is that all?

Clap. No, sir; the floor above him, next the roof, is occupied by Mr. Loopstitch, a tailor, a native of France.

Eben. Soldier, sailor, tinker, and tailor! Here’s nice company for my boy.

Clap. O, they’re a nice, gentlemanly set, I assure you; very quiet. Mr. Picket is apt to be a little restless nights; walks in his sleep; and sometimes wanders about the house with a loaded musket. Mr. Oakum is of rather a musical turn, and has his “bark upon the sea” a little too often. Mr. Tinpan is very fond of rehearsing his war-cry, “Old kettles to mend;” and Mr. Loopstitch is making frantic efforts to master the trombone. But generally they are quiet, gentlemanly, respectable individuals.

Eben. I should say so. And my son abandons his luxurious home, his highly respectable connections, for such society as this?

Clap. Lord bless you, young gentlemen have their little freaks, you know.

Eben. And so have old gentlemen too. I have a very sudden one myself. For how long has my son engaged this room?

Clap. Let me see; he has paid me for it up to six o’clock to-night.

Eben. And after that I suppose it will be to let.

Clap. Of course. Though probably he’ll keep it himself.

Eben. Hark you, Mr. Claptrap.

Clap.