Den. Now promise me you’ll stay at home more nights.
Brid. Yes, Pat, do, and jine the T. A. B’s.
Pat. Shure, Casey would drape his saloon in black if I did.
Brid. The curse of St. Patrick light on Casey. [She rises and approaches Pat, tickles him under the chin.] Then, Patsey, darlint, sign the pledge.
Pat. But it will spoil me hould in the ward. Who ever heard av a temperance politician.
Den. Drop politics an’ stick to bricklaying, Pat.
Pat. Well, I believe I will. From this hour Pat Grady, Iskwire, drinks no more! [Aside—at his own expense.] Bridget, shoulder that broom an’ we’ll give the leddies an’ jintlemen in front “Sons of Temperance,” T. A. B., and yer, Denis, jine in the chorus.
(All form group at front of stage and sing. At end of song flat closes in.)
[THE END.]