Bobby. Oh, can’t stand the press? Look ahere, gent, stand on my head, play yer a tune on my chin, and give yer the Union polish, all for five cents.
Sam. I don’t want your Union polish. I’m an Englishman.
Bobby. Oh, yer an Englishman! Say, don’t yer want to go over to Bunker Hill? Stand on my head, play yer a tune, and carry yer over to Bunker Hill, for five cents.
Sam. I don’t want to go to Bunker Hill.
Bobby. Well, say what do you want?
Sam. Sh! Do you want a goose?
Bobby. Do I want—Say that again, gent.
Sam. Do you want a goose? This one?
Bobby. What’s the matter with the poor old gobbler? somebody’s been mauling on him.
Sam. Yes, all right, just cooked; here, take him and leave. (Ties up goose in a napkin, accidentally slipping in a gravy spoon.)