Mike. In a minit, sir: the wather’s could. (Puts wrappers, towel, &c., round him.)
Simper. Yes, weally, you must attend to me. The dear cweecher will die: I know she will.
Crusty. Then let her die, or shave yourself!
Mike. Faith, sir, I can’t help it. Oh, murther! that’s Zeb. It’s high time he had his hand in. Here, Zeb! shave that gintleman.
Zeb. What dat you say, hey?
Mike. Oh, bother! Shave that gintleman.
Zeb. Shabe him,—shabe him? me shabe him? By golly! in coose,—in coose! (To Simper.) Dar’s de cheer. Hist yerself,—hist yerself!
Simper. Do what?
Zeb. Hist yerself, honey! Discompose yerself in dat are cheer.
Simper. Now, weally, the ideah of placing myself in the hands of such a howible cweecher! It’s too bad,—it is weally. (Sits in chair, &c. Zeb puts wrapper and towel about him.)