Phil. Well, I guess we don’t either of us “nose” much liquor this morning.
Ned. Look here, Phil: when I was in Steve Foster’s just now, a greenhorn was buying some liquor. I don’t know what it was; but it was put up in a demijohn. There he is now (pointing, L.), coming this way. If we can only manage to get possession of that demijohn, we’re safe for one drink at least.
Phil. Good! let’s try it on,—pass ourselves off for State constables, give him a scare.
Ned. All right, stand back, here he is! (They retire back. Enter Zeke, L., with demijohn.)
Zeke. I declare I feel about as mean as old Deacon Smithers did when he split his bran-new, brass-button, Sunday-go-to-meeting coat clean up the back while he was on his knees to Aunt Nabby’s darter Susan, popping the question, and she wouldn’t have him neither? Here am I Zekiel Short, Corresponding Secretary to the Rocky-valley Teetotalers, sneaking through the streets of Boston with a demijohn in my hand. I daren’t look a decent man in the face; and as for the gals—Christopher! the sight of one on ’em makes me blush way up to the roots of my hair. Catch me in such a scrape again! Got all my groceries and fixin’s up to the cars fust-rate, all ready for a start, when I happened to think that our apothecary wanted me to bring up something for him to make matrimonial wine of—no, that ain’t it; antimonial wine,—something for sick folks: and he wanted to get the poorest and cheapest stuff that I could scare up; and I rather think I have something that will suit him. I can smell turpentine way through that demijohn; and I shouldn’t wonder if it eat its way out afore I got home. I shouldn’t like to have any of our folks see me in this pickle, they’d have me up for backslidin’ sure as preaching. (Phil and Ned have been prowling round Zeke during this speech eyeing him and the demijohn.) Neow, what’s them are chaps eyeing me for? I wonder if they’re State constables. How do you do, sir?
Phil. Sha’n’t I assist you with that demijohn, Mr. Johnson?
Zeke. No, I thank you; and my name ain’t Johnson, nor demi-Johnson either.
Ned. Sha’n’t I assist you, Mr. Eh—— Mr. Eh——?