Tom. Oh, you're a smart one, you are! (Enter Stub, r.)
Stub. Supper's onto de table, and Miss Maynard, she says, says she, you're to come right into de kitchen, eat all you like, drink all you like, an' smash all de dishes if you like; an' dere's fourteen kinds ob pies, an' turnobers, an' turn-unders, an' cold chicken, an'—an'—cheese—
Harry. That will do, Stub. My good mother is a bountiful provider, and needs no herald. So, neighbors, take your partners; Hanks will give you a march, and Mr. Thornton and I will join you as soon as we have removed the marks of the forlorn chase.
Stub. Yas, Massa Hanks, strike up a march: something lively. Dead march in Saul; dat's fus rate.
Tom (c.). Kitty, shall I have the pleasure? (Offers his left arm to Kitty.)
Nat (l.). Miss Corum, shall I have the honor? (Offers his right arm to Kitty.)
Kitty (between them, looks at each one, turns up her nose at Tom, and takes Nat's arm). Thank you, Mr. Harlow. I'll intrust this property to you.
Nat. For life, Kitty?
Kitty. On a short lease. (They go up c., face audience; others pair, and fall in behind them.)
Tom (c.). Cut,—a decided cut. I must lay in wait for Yardstick when this breaks up, and I think he will need about a pound of beefsteak for his eyes in the morning. (Goes l. and leans dejectedly against wing. Music strikes up, the march is made across stage once, and off r., Stub strutting behind.)