Tony. ’At’s da madda? Dees-a suit made by-a London tailor.
Weber. I thought so. Those London tailors couldn’t make a coat of paint fit a hen-coop.
Hop (coming to door excitedly). Sir, there’s a big accident down at the corner.
Hans. Yah? Vass iss?
Hop. An aviator killed a cow. (Runs off.)
Ruff. (as all start to run off). Hold on, gentlemen. What’s the use of going? The aviator is not guilty.
Case. Of course he is.
Ruff. No, no. I’ll bet my eye-tooth against a square meal that the cow failed to blow her horn.
Tony (to Weber, who has posed rather sullenly). ’At’s da madda?
Weber (stepping over Case’s grip). I’se jes’ gittin’ over de grip. No, I’ll tell you. Ma gal’s daddy give her an automobile.