Moselle. Mother Merton.
Silas. Murder!
Moselle. What's the matter?
Silas. That accounts for it.
Moselle. Accounts for what?
Silas. The very affecting embrace of an aged Romeo and a mature Juliet. I just now interrupted a tight squeeze, in which your mammy was the squeezeed, and your daddy the squeezor.
Moselle. You saw that? Ha, ha, ha! Won't the boys be tickled!
Silas. Boys! Do you mean to say there are boys too?
Moselle. Why, certainly, lots of them.
Silas (aside). Great Scott! There'll be music in the air, with an anvil chorus thrown in, when daddy goes marching home. (Aloud.) But where do I come in?