Enter Picket, R., with a musket.
Pic. Ah, Meester Horace, how you vas? Berty mooch?
Hor. Ah, Picket, you’re right on hand.
Pic. Yaw, yaw; I ish coomed right along, by donder, mit mine gun upon mine pack.
Hor. Like a true hero, and with the martial spirit inspiring your bosom—hey?
Pic. Yaw, I shpose vat you mean, but I don’t know.
Enter Oakum, R.
Oak. Hallo! Heow are yeou anyheow? Goin’ at the picter ag’in?
Hor. Yes; I believe I can make my brush fly this afternoon.
Oak. Wal, yeou painter chaps dew beat all creation; that’s a fact. I s’pose yeou know what yeou’re abaout; but darn me if I can see into it. What’s the use er wastin’ yer time a flingin’ away paint on that air diminutive quiltin’-frame. Would do more good ef yeou’d give old Clapboard’s house a coat; it wants it bad enough!