Enter OLD MORTON, drunk, in evening costume, cravat awry, coat half-buttoned up, and half-surly, half-idiotic manner. All rise in astonishment. SANDY starts forward. OAKHURST pulls him back.
Morton (thickly). Don't rish! Don't rish! We'll all sit down! How do you do, sir? I wish ye well, miss. (Goes around and laboriously shakes hands with everybody.) Now lesh all take a drink! lesh you take a drink, and you take a drink, and you take a drink!
Starbottle. Permit me, ladies and gentlemen, to—er—explain: our friend is—er—evidently laboring under—er—er—accident of hospitality! In a moment he will be himself.
Old Morton. Hush up! Dry up—yourself—old turkey-cock! Eh!
Sandy (despairingly). He will not understand us! (To STARBOTTLE.) He will not know me! What is to be done?
Old Morton. Give me some whishkey. Lesh all take a drink! (Enter SERVANT with decanter and glasses.)
Old Morton (starting forward). Lesh all take a drink!
Sandy. Stop!
Old Morton (recovering himself slightly). Who says stop? Who dares countermand my orderish?
Concho (coming forward). Who? I will tell you: eh! eh! Diego—dismissed from the rancho of Don Jose for drunkenness! Sandy—the vagabond of Red Gulch!