Enter Loopstitch, R.
Loop. Sacre! vat for you want—hey? I have break off mine thread right in de meedle of ze pantaloons.
Hor. You remember our bargain. You were to be at my service when wanted.
Loop. Service? Sacre, zis is too much all ze time. Monsieur Fusee have no pantaloons; he make ze trouble, ze fuss; he raise vat you call ze storm, if he no have ze pantaloons.
Oak. Well, let him sweat, Frenchy. I’ll lend him a pair.
Enter Timothy, R.
Tim. Arrah, b’ys, how are yees, onyhow? It’s the tip uv the morning till yees, Misther Horace.
Oak. Hallo, Tim! How’s trade?
Tim. Thrade, is it? Bad luck to its! There’s none at all at all. It’s loike the nose of Paddy Flinn’s pig—it’s away down in the mud.