I cannot marry you all. If I did marry you I should make the red lady miserable for life, and the green lady would die of jealousy, and the yellow lady might commit suicide.
Enter Artist, with portfolio, which falls on the floor.
Artist. You venerable reptile, what are you about! What do you mean, sir? Get up, sir! I'll knock you down, sir! You've driven away one of my best customers. (They scuffle.)
Mr. B. But my dear sir—my good young friend, what was I to do? Hear me—listen—leave go—you'll tear my coat—let go, or she'll be back, and then I'm lost! Do you hear, you rascal! You'll tear my coat—there go my suspenders—there goes something else! I'll have you arrested for intent to do grievous bodily battery and commit violent matrimony—let go!
Artist. You old rascal—you old polypus—you old humbug—you are ruining me! (Rushes to one side and returns with club or stick. A fight ensues. Old gent strikes an attitude with umbrella.)
Mr. B. Come on, Mac what's your name! and damned be he who first cries hold—enough!
Artist (aside). I'll be hanged if the old buffer ain't swearing! (Aloud.) By all the powers I'll be revenged! As sure as my name is Puttyblow I will be re-ve-n-ged! (Is about to rush at old gent.)
Mr. B. Pause, rash man! Did you say Puttyblow?
Artist. I did.