Tim. Hould yees blarney yerself, or I’ll—I’ll pull the hair from your head!
Eben. Leave this room, instantly, or I’ll put you out!
Tim. You put me out, is it? Begorra! the sooner yees commince that same, the better’s to the liking of Tim Tiupan.
Eben. (Taking hold of him.) Leave the room, I say!
Tim. Off wid yees, or I’ll break ivery bone in yees body!
Eben. You will—will you? (Takes hold of him.)
Tim. (Throws off veil.) Arrah, boys, here’s a shindy! Come on, old gint! (Flourishes his fist.)
Eben. Here! Help, help, help! (Timothy clinches him.) Leave the room!
Enter Horace, L., Oakum, Clapboard, and Picket, R. Loopstitch crawls from behind lounge.