Twitters. I’m not well this morning, sir.
Hunker (sitting down.) Naturally enough. The morning news doesn’t agree with you, I presume.
Twitters (nervous). I don’t understand you.
Hunker. I have a little business with you—rather private nature. You might prefer to have our young friend here leave the room.
Clara (rising with dignity). I am going, papa.
Hunker. Good day—Miss Twitters, I reckon—pleased to have met you. Hope to see more of you. (Exit Clara.)
Twitters. And now, sir, who are you?
Hunker. “A foe to capital, and the grand master of a society organized to cripple said capital, muzzle monopolists and elevate the horny-handed son of toil”—at your service, sir.
Twitters. Ah, you wrote me a letter this morning?
Hunker. I did.