Joe. Out, jammed spot! What—will these hands never be clean?
Here's the smell of the raspberry jam still! All the powders of Gregory cannot unsweeten this little hand ... (Moaning.) Oh, oh, oh!
[This passage has been accused of bearing too close a resemblance to one in a popular Stage Play; if so, the coincidence is purely accidental, as the Dramatist is not in the habit of reading such profane literature.
Joe's Mother. Ah! what an icy dread my heart benumbs!
See—stains on all his fingers, and his thumbs!
"What Joe was about, His mother found out, When she look'd at his fingers and thumbs."—Poem again.
Nay, Joseph—'tis your mother ... speak to her!
Joe (tonelessly, as before). Lady, I know you not (touches lower part of waistcoat); but, prithee, undo this button. I think I have jam in all my veins, and I would fain sleep. When I am gone, lay me in a plain white jelly-pot, with a parchment cover, and on the label write—but come nearer, I have a secret for your ear alone ... there are strange things in some cupboards! Demons should keep in the dust-bin. (With a ghastly smile.) I know not what ails me, but I am not feeling at all well.
[Joe's Mother stands a few steps from him, with her hands twisted in her hair, and stares at him in speechless terror.
Joe (to the Chorus). I would shake hands with you all, were not my fingers so sticky. We eat marmalade, but we know not what it is made of. Hush! if Jim-Jam comes again, tell him that I am not at home. Loo-loo-loo!
All (with conviction). Some shock has turned his brine!
Joe (sitting down on floor, and weaving straws in his hair.) My curse upon him that invented jam. Let us all play Tibbits.