Nat. Don't write your will in his favor.
Kitty.
"When a woman wills she wills: depend on't;
And when she won't she won't, and there's the end on't."
Tom (sings). "If I could write my title clear."
Nat. Give me the title, Kitty.
Tom. I'd give you a title—Counter-jumper, Yardstick; that's about your measure. You talk about titles; why, all you are good for is to measure tape and ribbons, cut "nigger-head," shovel sugar, and peddle herrings for old Gleason. Bah! I smell soap now.
Nat (jumping up). You just step outside, and you shall smell brimstone, and find your measure on the turf, Tom Larcom.
Kitty. There, there, stop that! I'll have no quarrelling. Supper's nearly ready, and the corn not finished.
Tom. We'll be ready for the supper, Kitty. If I could only find a red ear.
Kitty. And if you could?