Twitters. The front one is mine.
Hunker. Sorry to inconvenience you, I’m sure, but I can’t put up with a back one.
Twitters (aside). Crimes do come home to roost with a vengeance! (Aloud.) Where is your trunk?
Hunker. Would you believe it, Twitters, I’ve shoved up every thundering rag that ain’t on my back. I’ll borrow of you.
Twitters. This passes patience.
Hunker. It’s hard to bear; but your clothes are good, if they aint handsome. I aint proud. But proud or not, I want a bath. If you’ll believe it, Twitters, I’ve not bathed since—but we won’t be unpleasant and vulgar, will we?
Twitters. The servant will show you to the bath-room.
Hunker. You’d better do it yourself, Twitters; I don’t like to lose sight of you—not that you’re so awful handsome to look at, but—you twig? Thanks, I’ll sample your strong waters (pouring brandy from decanter to goblet and drinking). Where’s the bath-room?
Twitters. This way.
Hunker. All right. Now you treat me fair, and I’ll treat you fair. (Smacking his lips.) I’m square. That’s prime tipple. (Exeunt.)