Loop. Sacre! I feel all over like vat you call ze goost.
Oak. And darn me if you don’t look like one!
Loop. Vat you mean by dat—hey, Monsieur Oakum?
Hor. Come, now take your places.
Tim. All right; away wid yees. (Takes position in centre of stage; left hand against his breast, right hand pointing up.)
Hor. That’s right; now Victory. (Loopstitch gets upon a stool behind Timothy, and holds wreath over his head.) Very well. Now, then, for the army and navy. (Picket stands R. of Timothy, leaning upon his musket; Oakum stands L., his arms folded.) Good, good! Positions are all right. Now, then, for the expressions.
Tim. Hould on a minute; there’s something crawling up my back.
Hor. Never mind, never mind!
Tim. But I do mind. It’s biting me, the ugly thief! Here, Frenchy, give me a dig in the back.