Loop. Sacre! vare vill I find vat you call de spade?
Oak. Here; I’ll fix you. (Gives Timothy a thump on the back.)
Tim. Murder and Irish! you’ve broke my ribs!
Hor. Come, come, Tim; put a smiling expression upon your face.
Tim. Smile, is it, with a hornet crawling up my back!
Hor. We’re wasting time. Smile, I tell you.
Tim. Well, then, here goes. (A horrible smile.)
Hor. Now, Loopstitch, triumph in your face.
Loop. Oui, oui. Vive la triomphe!
Hor. That’s very good. Now, Picket, let a martial spirit glow in your face.