Steve. Mr. Hanscomb, allow me to present for your inspection this document just left at the bar, with the compliments of the landlord of the Hotel Bullock. (Gives Hanscomb printed handbill.)
Mr. H. What is it? (Reads.) “Stop, thief! Nab him! Strayed from the Hotel Bullock an individual passing by the singular name of John Smith.” John Smith? I think I’ve heard that name before.
Steve. It has a very distangue air.
Mr. H. “Tall, red hair, pale, ferocious-looking countenance; wore, when last seen, dark mixed pants, blue coat with brass buttons, white hat, and a shawl. A reward of one cent will be given for the arrest of the missing individual, and fifty dollars for the recovery of one dozen silver spoons, which said individual, probably accidentally, took with him.” So, so, a hotel thief. Mr. John Smith will no doubt pay me a visit; so, Steve, just keep a sharp look-out for this spoony. (Enter Pete, R., muttering and shaking his head.) Well, what’s the matter with you?
Pete. Mr. Hanscomb, I don’t wish to be troubulous,—I don’t wish to be troubulous, Mr. Hanscomb, but dar are t’ings, Mr. Hanscomb, dat stir de heart of man, as Deacon Foster eloquentially distresses himself, and—and—and—well, what I mean—rile him—rile him.
Mr. H. What’s the matter, stupid?
Pete. Mr. Hanscomb, you’re my massa.
Mr. H. Well, well?
Pete. You’re my massa, Mr. Hanscomb, and I s’pose you can call me what you please.