Stub. So would I, so would I. Yas, indeed; get de polish down dar. Look at Joe Trash; he went down dar, he did. New suit ob store clo's onto him, and forty dollars in his calf-skin. He come back in free days polished right out ob his boots.
Tom. Well, I s'pose it's out of fashion not to like this Thornton, but there's something in the twist of his waxed-end mustache, and the roll of his eye, that makes me feel bad for Harry.
Kitty. You needn't fear for Harry. He won't eat him.
Stub. No, sir, he's not a connubial: he's a gemblum.
Tom. Ah! here's the last ear, and, by jingo! it's a red one.
Chorus. Good for you, Tom! good for you!
Nat. I'll give you a dollar for your chance.
Tom. No, you don't, Nat; I'm in luck.—Now, Kitty, I claim the privilege. A kiss for the finder of the red ear. (All rise.)
Kitty. Not from me, saucebox.