Bobby. Thank yer. I’ll take him right down among the Union Polishers, and if we don’t polish his bones, my name is not Bobby Small.
Sam (giving goose). Well, Bobby, here you are.
Bobby. Thank yer, sir; may yer live forever! But I say, can’t I do something for yer? Stand on my head? No! Play yer a tune on my chin? No! Union polish yer? Oh! yer don’t like that. Well, when yer do want a shine, just drop down into Brattle Square. You’ll find me there in business hours, ready to stand on my head, give yer a tune on my chin, or give yer the Union polish. (Sings “Jordan:”)
“Take off yer coat, boys, roll up yer sleeves,
Spread well de blacking on de boots,
De people bound to shine, and no make believes,
And de Union am de polish dat suits.”
(Exit, L.)
Sam. Well, I’ve got rid of that unfortunate animal, and now let’s see if I can find my uncle, the captain. (Enter Pete, L.) Here, African, clear away this truck. (Exit, L.)
Pete. Clear away de truck? By golly! I t’ink it pretty well cleared itself, bones and all. (Enter Steve, L.) I say, Steve, de old gobbler am clean gone.