May. O Mr. Marcus! Mr. Graves!
Mar. Halloa! what’s this? The tramp! (Comes down.) Here, fellow, you start!
Matt (turns and looks at him). ’Scuse me (hic), are you anybody in par—hic—ticular?
Mar. Leave this room at once. Do you hear?
Matt. ’Scuse me. I’m com—hic—fortable; make yourself at home.
Mar (striking him with whip). Scoundrel, begone, I say.
Matt (rising). Ha! it strikes me that you struck (hic) me. (Hic.) I don’t keep no accounts. So let that settle (hic) it. (Strikes at Marcus. Royal comes down, seizes him by nape of neck, and throws him on floor L. halfway up.)
Roy. Lie there, you scamp!
Matt (staggering to his feet). Ha, surrounded! then I’ll die game (hic), I will. (Rushes at Roy; they grapple, and stand looking into each other’s faces. Chord.)