Ton. He knows nothing about it.
Mike. And yer haven’t asked his consint?
Ton. No: it would be useless. He has declared his daughter shall marry only a rich man; that he will not let her walk, ride, or receive the visits of any young man; that he will cut her off with a shilling should she marry without his consent.
Mike. The taring ould heathin!
Ton. He is encouraging the attentions of young Simper, whom the young lady detests, and whom he only tolerates because he has a rich father.
Mike. The miserable ould varmint! But who is he?
Ton. One of my customers,—old Jotham Crusty.
Mike. What! that ould skinflint? His consint? It’s precious little he’d give onyhow.
Zeb. (Outside, R.) Ain’t yer ’shamed yerself, yer great, overgrown? Fie!—for shame! Yer ought to be redicleish!