Eben. There’s that sailor going it!
Tim. (Outside, sings.) “Ould kittles to mind! Ould kittles to mind!”
Eben. And there’s the tinker. (Trombone, “ould kittles,” and “bark upon the sea,” all together.) What a confounded din! I wish I was well out of it.
Enter Picket, with musket, slowly, on tiptoe.
Pic. Who goes dare?
Eben. O, heavens! There’s that insane old grenadier! What will become of me?
Pic. Sh—! By donder, I see some noise! Sh—! Who goes dare? Sh—! Somepody mit a gun. Advance pefore you speak, and say something. Sh—! (Creeps about the room on tiptoe.)
Eben. (On lounge.) If he discovers me, I am a lost man!
Pic. By donder, if dare ish nopody here, vy don’t you speak? You vant your coat-tails shot through mit a pullet. (Creeps back to door, R.) I fight mit Sigel. Sh—! By donder! I never hear so mooch silence pefore!