Twitters. Neither am I.
Hunker. Naturally; you don’t like the prospect of hanging, and I don’t like the prospect of continuing to breakfast from early morning milk-cans, and to bone newspapers to keep me in tobacco. Now, you make me comfortable and I’ll guarantee you shan’t swing.
Twitters. Well, well, how much do you want?
Hunker. I aint mean in money matters. Let’s see—By Jove, Twitters, I like the looks of this box of yours. I’ll make you a visit.
Twitters. I’m not joking, sir.
Hunker. No more am I,—I have proofs; first, that arsenic was in the sugar; second—
Twitters. I must yield.
Hunker. All right, Twitters. You’re more intelligent than you look.
Twitters. I have a good back room.
Hunker. I prefer a front one.