Snowball. Shut up yer tater trap.
Punster. Suppose you sit, for a change. (Pulls him down to seat.)
Timorous. Anything to oblige.
Precise. Mr. Jolly.
Jolly (rising). My turn, hey? Mr. Foreman, and gentlemen of the jury,——
To make or not to make, that is the question.
Whether ’tis better to let Popgun suffer
The law’s full penalty for mixing powder,
Or to take arms against this awful tax,
And by our verdict free him.