Bill. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as I could holler.
Mat. You must try my boots next time you come.
Bill. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine like plate glass—see then if I don't. But where'll I get a box and brushes?
Mat. You shall have our brushes and my footstool.
Bill. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the brushes in, and carry it by one leg—as drunken Moll does her kid.—Here you are, sir! Black your boots, sir?—Shine your trotters, sir? (bawling.)
Mat. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You needn't do it again (holding her ears). Would you like a tart?
Bill. Just wouldn't I, then!—Shine your boooooots!
Mat. (laughing). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's a penny for a tart.
Bill. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you.
Exit into the shop.