Nancy. No.
Simon (puts paper back). The fact is, lightning-rods don’t agree with me. I started out in high hopes, one bright morning, espied an unprotected dwelling, rushed boldly up, rung the bell, notwithstanding a gigantic mastiff lay at my feet, evidently occupied in catching flies. Gent came to the door. In glowing speech I introduced my business. He rubbed his chin, said, “I don’t know,” and looked at the dog. I found he did know, when he further remarked, with emphasis, “Rover, here’s another rod man.” The dog gave a growl and rose. An electric shock was communicated to my being, and I calculated in one brief minute how many rods I should have to clear before reaching my rods outside. Then I left, closely attended by the dog. I didn’t own these clothes then; if I had my loss would have been greater, especially in that part of my wardrobe which the artist designated as tout ensemble. I gave up that business in disgust.
Nancy. Well, what next?
Simon. Then I sought the confectioner’s emporium. Said I, here’s a sweet occupation, and a candid young man can win more lasses’ favor in this line than in any other. Nancy, you would adore me could you see me in a white apron, pulling molasses candy over a hook (with gestures), with a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull altogether!
Nancy. Simon Stone, you are a fool!
Simon. Nancy, I know it, or I should not be running after you, when I’ve been snubbed time and time again. Nancy, dear Nancy, look upon me with favor this time. (Takes box from pocket behind.) Accept this slight but sweet offering of affection. (Presents it.) Real French candy——made it myself.
Nancy (taking box). Do you mean to stick to this business, Simon?
Simon. To be sure I do, and it’s an awful sticky business I tell you——specially setting down into a pan of hot, cooling candy when you aren’t particularly tired.
Nancy. Well, Simon, if I thought I could trust you.
Simon. You can, Nancy, you can. O Nancy, quit this scrubbing existence and work for me alone!