Mike. If yer don’t, yer a goose. He gives his consent, and ye’ll have it in writin’, too. Go it, honey!
Crusty. There you are: there’s a note for the parson, and another for old Hobson. Give my regards to the lady, and tell her she’s a goose if she misses such a chance of getting a husband.
Ton. Thank you, Mr. Crusty. I’ll be off at once. Mike, you look after the shop. Don’t let old Crusty out of here for half an hour, mind.
Crusty. Come, come! I want that horse and chaise in half an hour.
Ton. All right, sir. I’ll be back before then. Mike, give the old gentleman a shave. Good-by! I’m off. (Exit, R.)
Mike. Good luck to yez! Here’s an old shoe for luck. (Throws a shoe off, R., which hits Zeb in head.)
Zeb. Stop, yer fool—will yer? By golly, you almos’ broke my jaw!
Mike. Faith, if I had, ’twould been a savin’ for the shop.
Crusty. The young man’s off. Good joke on the girl’s father! Well, it won’t cost me any thing; so I can afford to give my consent. (Takes off handkerchief and dicky.) Now, my man, I’ll trouble you for a shave.
Mike. A shave! (Aside.) Oh, murther! how could I go to work to shave this ould rhinoceros?