class="smcap">Hor. You remember our bargain. You were to be at my service when wanted.

Loop. Service? Sacre, zis is too much all ze time. Monsieur Fusee have no pantaloons; he make ze trouble, ze fuss; he raise vat you call ze storm, if he no have ze pantaloons.

Oak. Well, let him sweat, Frenchy. I’ll lend him a pair.

Enter Timothy, R.

Tim. Arrah, b’ys, how are yees, onyhow? It’s the tip uv the morning till yees, Misther Horace.

Oak. Hallo, Tim! How’s trade?

Tim. Thrade, is it? Bad luck to its! There’s none at all at all. It’s loike the nose of Paddy Flinn’s pig—it’s away down in the mud.

Oak. Well, here’s hoping that, like Paddy Flinn’s pig, it may pick up a bit.

Tim. That’s thrue for ye, Misther Oakum.

Hor. Now, then, let’s to work. Tinpan, you and Loopstitch don your habiliments, and we’ll go to work.

Tim. Don—which is it?

Loop. Sacre! I no comprehend.

Oak. Darn it, Tim, jump into the Goddess of Liberty’s clos; and, Loopstitch, put on that air gown of Victory’s.

Tim. Begorra! that’s a sinsible way of putting things.

[Exit, L.

Loop. Victory! Oui, oui; I comprehend victory.

[Exit, L.

Oak. Sich a set of darned stupid furriners I never did see.

Pic. Yaw; dey ish very hard of hearing, by donder!

Oak. Well, Picket, you managed to give us a pretty good scare last night, walking round with that old blunderbuss! Ef yeou ain’t keerful, yeou’ll let fly at some on us, and then there’ll be a purty case of manslaughter.

Pic. Yaw; manslaughter ish goot. I like him mooch ven I fights mit Sigel. By donder! I tink of dat ebery night in mine shleep, and I no shleep at all.

Oak. Well, consarn yeour picter! deon’t yeou come up my way; if yer du, I’ll souse yer head in a bucket of tar!

Pic. Yaw; I no like dat purty well.

Enter Timothy, L., dressed as the Goddess of Liberty; red skirt, mail waist, blue drapery about shoulders.

Tim. Begorra! how’s that for a famale woman? What would Judy O’Flanagan say to that? Tim Tinpan in a red petticoat? Whoo! kittles to mind, kittles to mind!

Enter Loopstitch, in a long white gown, with a green wreath in his hand.

Loop. Sacre! I feel all over like vat you call ze goost.

Oak. And darn me if you don’t look like one!

Loop. Vat you mean by dat—hey, Monsieur Oakum?

Hor. Come, now take your places.

Tim. All right; away wid yees. (Takes position in centre of stage; left hand against his breast, right hand pointing up.)

Hor. That’s right; now Victory. (Loopstitch gets upon a stool behind Timothy, and holds wreath over his head.) Very well. Now, then, for the army and navy. (Picket stands R. of Timothy, leaning upon his musket; Oakum stands L., his arms folded.) Good, good! Positions are all right. Now, then, for the expressions.

Tim. Hould on a minute; there’s something crawling up my back.

Hor. Never mind, never mind!

Tim. But I do mind. It’s biting me, the ugly thief! Here, Frenchy, give me a dig in the back.