Horace.
Why? Because I thought you were such a respectable, harmless old foozle that you'd never do anything to deserve it. [Watching him.] But, of course, you will if you cut my head off. You'll have a much worse time than ever you had in the bottle!
Fakrash.
I know it. For no other reason have I recovered my stopper but to return into my bottle once more.
Horace.
[Relieved.] I think you're wise. [Getting down from the table.] And I tell you what—if you'll only make it worth my while I'll seal you up myself.
Fakrash.
O thou of imperfect understanding! Ere I re-enter my bottle thy head will already have been smitten from thy shoulders. [Pointing scimitar across table at Horace.] How, then, couldst thou——?
Horace.
[Wincing.] You needn't go on—I quite see your point. Only—if I don't seal you up, who will?