[Enter Biddy R. E. carrying tray, on which are loaf of bread, a knife, a black bottle and two glasses.]
Look at that now! If that isn’t the tip of hospitality my name’s not Patrick Dolan.
Biddy (places tray on table).—Now, Pat, ye must not thrifle over the sup, (fills glass from bottle) but drink it at once. It would niver do to have the folks foind ye here.
Pat (takes glass).—Here’s to our wedding day, (drinks) Oh! ah! (jumps to his feet and runs about stage holding his throat) I’m pizened, I’m kilt.
Biddy (following him about).—Shpeak, shpeak, me darlint Pat.
Pat (gasping and pointing to bottle).—Look—look—look at that! What’s in the bottle?
Biddy.—Sure I can’t read. (Hands bottle to Pat.)
Pat.—Saint Patrick defind me! (reads) “Pure Jamaica Ginger,” Oh! its atin me up! (Noise heard without.)
Biddy.—Hark! (Both listen.)
Nicholas (from without).—We should have taken an umbrella; hurry in or we shall be drowned with the rain.