Oak. Well, here’s hoping that, like Paddy Flinn’s pig, it may pick up a bit.
Tim. That’s thrue for ye, Misther Oakum.
Hor. Now, then, let’s to work. Tinpan, you and Loopstitch don your habiliments, and we’ll go to work.
Tim. Don—which is it?
Loop. Sacre! I no comprehend.
Oak. Darn it, Tim, jump into the Goddess of Liberty’s clos; and, Loopstitch, put on that air gown of Victory’s.
Tim. Begorra! that’s a sinsible way of putting things.
[Exit, L.
Loop. Victory! Oui, oui; I comprehend victory.