A Tender Attachment: A Farce

by George M. Baker

Clap. Speak for yourself, Mr. Crotchet, I can’t join you in that.

Eben. Horace, I’m a meddling old fool. I should have trusted you. I’ll go home. You may go on with your picture; and if out of the material which I find here you can produce anything satisfactory, I’ll give my consent to anything you ask.

Hor. Thank you, father. I’m rather discouraged at present; but if these individuals can cure you of “a tender attachment,” they may be of use to me; and if they can help me to achieve my purpose, you will be obliged to admit that there are worse companions than a soldier—

Pic. Yaw, what fight mit Sigel.

Hor. A sailor—

Oak. Tarnal cute, when his bark’s on the sea.

Hor. A tinker—

Tim. A broth of a boy for minding the broken nose of a tay-kittle.

Hor. And a tailor—