That’s been the old notion. And folks—that is, the folks with gold-lace that’s never flogged—think to ’bolish the cat at once would bring a blight upon laurels. They think sojers like eels—none the worse for fire for being well skinned.
Tickle. There you are; biting the ’thorities of your country agin. But since you’ve taken the story out of my mouth, go on, though every word you speak’s a bitter almond.
Nutts. Well, it isn’t a thing to talk sugar-plums about, is it? I’m not a young lady, am I?
Mrs Nutts. (From back parlour.) I wish you’d remember you’ve a wife and children, Mr Nutts, and never mind young ladies. You can’t shave and talk of young ladies too, I’m sure.
Nutts. (In a low voice.) It’s very odd; she’s one of the strongest-minded women, and yet she can never hear me speak of one of the sex without fizzing like a squib.
Nosebag. (Solemnly.) Same with ’em all. I suppose it’s love.
Nutts. Why, it is; that is, it’s jealousy, which is only love with its claws out.
Tickle. Well, claws brings you to the cat again; so go on.
Nutts. To be sure. Well, as I was saying——(To Limpy.) What’s the matter? I’m sure this razor would shave a new-born baby; but for a poor man I don’t know where you got such a delicate skin. I will say this, Mr Limpy, for one of the swinish multitude, you are the tenderest pork I ever shaved.
Slowgoe. But the Duke of Wellington——