Sharpset. Humbug! Will you, or will you not, accept my offer? Half profits for the duchess. Sharp's the word! Quick, or you lose it!
Dr. A. My dear friend, it wouldn't hurt you to lose a little blood. My lancet's handy.
Sharpset. Jehoshaphat! do you take me to be an idiot?
Dr. A. You'd better go home. Your wife and children are expecting you. No doubt the little folks are chanting, with their childish voices, "Dear father, dear father, come home."
Sharpset. Jes' so. You can't pull wool over my eyes, doctor. Silas Sharpset is sharpset by name and sharpset by nater. You can't fool me. You've got a prize, and want to keep it for yourself; but if I don't set the populace howling round your door, and make you show up the duchess, then you can shave my head, and lock me up for life. No monopolies here in living curiosities while Sharpset's around—not if he knows it: jes' so.
[Exit, L.
Dr. A. He's gone—home, I hope. He's very mad. Why don't his friends take care of him. It's dangerous to let a man run round with such horrid ideas as are rambling through his brain. The fat girl, the living skeleton, the bald-headed accountant, and "The Duchess of Dublin." 'Pon my word, the idea of my having under my charge a duchess! O, it's absurd. The man's crazy; he must be looked after; I'll follow him (takes hat), and see that he does no damage. (Goes to door, L.)
Enters, suddenly, Miss Abigail Alllove, with a large book under her arm. Seizes Dr. Aconite by arm, and drags him down, C.
Abigail (mysteriously). You are—are you?—or am I mistaken?
Dr. A. Eh? You may be right, you may be wrong, or you may be mistaken.