Oak. What a darned sneaking coward!
Tim. Easy, now, Mr. Horace; my hand’s getting tired.
Hor. Let me see what I can do. (Goes to easel, and takes brush.) Now, steady, all.
Tim. Och, murder! the crayture’s crawling up my back again!
Pic. I am ash dry ash never vas.
Hor. Steady, steady!
Tim. Ow, my back! Give me a dig, Frenchy.
Oak. Confound you, I will! (Hits Timothy in the stomach, who doubles up.)
Tim. Ow, murther, murther! (Backs into Loopstitch, who tumbles over. Timothy runs up and down stage howling.)
Loop. Sacre! you have broke me all to pieces.