Loop. Sacre! vare vill I find vat you call de spade?

Oak. Here; I’ll fix you. (Gives Timothy a thump on the back.)

Tim. Murder and Irish! you’ve broke my ribs!

Hor. Come, come, Tim; put a smiling expression upon your face.

Tim. Smile, is it, with a hornet crawling up my back!

Hor. We’re wasting time. Smile, I tell you.

Tim. Well, then, here goes. (A horrible smile.)

Hor. Now, Loopstitch, triumph in your face.

Loop. Oui, oui. Vive la triomphe!

Hor. That’s very good. Now, Picket, let a martial spirit glow in your face.

Pic. Yaw, yaw. (Starts, R.)

Hor. Where are you going?

Pic. For mine lager, mit de spirit up stairs.

Hor. No, no; you don’t understand me. Look as you looked when you met the rebels, fierce for the fight.

Pic. Ven I fight mit Sigel?

Hor. Yes; as you did then, do now.

Pic. Yaw; den I’ll go right up stairs.

Hor. What do you mean?

Pic. Ven I fight mit Sigel, ven de repels coom, ve runned away.

Oak. What a darned sneaking coward!

Tim. Easy, now, Mr. Horace; my hand’s getting tired.

Hor. Let me see what I can do. (Goes to easel, and takes brush.) Now, steady, all.

Tim. Och, murder! the crayture’s crawling up my back again!

Pic. I am ash dry ash never vas.

Hor. Steady, steady!

Tim. Ow, my back! Give me a dig, Frenchy.

Oak. Confound you, I will! (Hits Timothy in the stomach, who doubles up.)

Tim. Ow, murther, murther! (Backs into Loopstitch, who tumbles over. Timothy runs up and down stage howling.)

Loop. Sacre! you have broke me all to pieces.

Hor. Order, order! How do you suppose I can paint with such confusion? You have spoiled everything.

Tim. Faith, it’s not myself that’s to blame.

Oak. Darn him! he’s got a nest of hornets under his jacket!

Hor. We can do nothing to-day. It’s now nearly six o’clock. An individual will be here at six to take possession of my room; he has hired it, and I must vacate.

Oak. What, hired the room over your head?

Hor. Yes; it’s a little plot of my father’s to get me home again. If he stays here, I must give up my painting; and of course you will be wanted no more as models.

Loop. Sacre! zat is too bad! ver mooch too bad!

Tim. Faith! must I lose my sitivation?

Pic. Yaw; we can’t come here some more!

Hor. That’s exactly the state of the case. Of course, as he’s my father, it will not do for me to take any measures to cause him to leave. With you it is different. If you can manage to make him sick of his bargain to-night, we shall resume operations to-morrow, as usual.

Oak. Darn him, we’ll pitch him out of the winder!

Hor. No, no; no violence!

Tim. No, b’ys; no voilence. We’ll break his head intirely! That’s all.

Hor. He’s very particular to have everything about him quiet. I offer no suggestions. If you can manage to scare him a little, I’ve no objections.

Tim. Faith, lave us alone for that.

Oak. Come to my room, boys; we’ll fix the old skinflint! Come along.

Tim. Yaw; flint ish goot ven I fight mit Sigel.

Oak. O, never mind Seagull. Come along.

Loop. Sacre! Vat you fix his flint with? I no comprehend.

Oak. I’ll fix everything all right.