Crusty. Oh! you have? Then why don’t you get married, have a little comfort, and not poke along in this way, with no company but a thick-headed Irishman and a ball of blacking?
Mike. Faith, it’s mighty complimentary is the ould gint, onyhow.
Zeb. Yes, well I guess! Ball of blacking,—blacking! What does the Declamation—
Ton. Shut up, Zeb!
Crusty. Say, Tonsor, why don’t you get married?
Ton. Well, sir, you see, sir—
Crusty. Oh, bother! why don’t you speak out?
Mike. Faith, Mr. Crusty, I’ll be afther telling uv yez: it’s mighty bashful is the masther. Ye say, sir, it’s all along uv the young lady’s father.
Crusty. Well, what of him?
Mike. Ye say, sir, he’s wealthy and concaited, and manes the daughter shall niver marry anybody but a rich man.