Simper. Now, Mr. Bawbaw.
Zeb. Mr. Which?
Simper. Use despatch.
Zeb. Yes, well, I guess not; we use razors hea, we do.
Crusty. Come, come, hurry up.
Mike. Yes, sir, intirely, sir. (Lathers him. Zeb lathers Simper, putting it plentifully in his mouth.)
Simper. Ph—ph—ph—! deuse take you; do you want to choke me with your nasty soap?
Zeb. Yes, well, I guess not. It’s jest as wholesome as flap-jacks and sirup. (To Mike.) I’ve got him lathered: what will I do with him now?
Mike. Do, you spalpeen?—do wid him as I do wid de other chap. (Takes the razor.) Now for my first attimpt at shaving. Blessed St. Patrick, befrind me, or I be afthir cuttin’ his wizen.
Zeb. (Goes to table, taking razor.) I’m to do as Mike does: golly, I kin do dat jist. (During the next speeches he runs between the two chairs, watching Mike, and shaving Simper.)