Crusty. Come, be lively! I want to get out of this at once. I’m wanted at the house.
Mike. Oh, murther and Irish! at the house is it? (Aside.) Faith, that’ll niver do. (Aloud.) Here, sit down here, sir.
Crusty. (Sits in chair, R. C.) A close shave, mind!
Mike. A close shave is it? (Aside.) By the blissed St. Patrick, what’s that? (Enter Simper, R.)
Simper. Now, weally, ’tis disgustingly vulgaw,—it is weally,—the ideah of a wefined gentleman being compelled to entaw such a howid place, to have his chin shaved, and his whiskaws twimmed: it is weally!
Mike. Your turn next, sir: take a seat.
Simper. My turn next? Do you weally mean to say that I must wait? Aw!
Mike. Faith, honey, you must: there’s niver a wun to shave you at all, at all!
Simper. But I can’t wait,—I can’t weally. I have a pwessing engagement. A dear, delightful cweecher is fondly waiting my coming,—she is weally.
Crusty. (Aside.) Then all I’ve got to say, she’s got a job. Here, you slow coach! am I never to have a shave?