Simper. Now, bawbaw, do your neatest; for, in a few minutes, I shall be at the feet of a divine cweecher.
Zeb. Screecher! does she play on de banjo too.
Simper. Be careful now, don’t destwoy the symmetwy of my whiskaws.
Zeb. (aside). Sim—sim—sim—what am dat? By golly, Mike’s taking de whiskers off dat chap of his’en.
Simper. I say, bawbaw: in a few minutes I shall thwow myself at the feet of this divine cweecher; and I shall say—
Crusty. Confound you, stupid, you’ve cut me—
Mike. Oh, murder! it was the razor. Bedad, I wish I was well out of this.
Simper. Oh!—murder!—murder! you’ve cut me hawwibly!
Zeb. By golly, so I has. (Aside.) Must do jes as Mike does.