A-playin’ wid his toes,
An’ up comes de ginny pig,
Den off he goes.
George P. (Thoroughly aroused, throwing down his paper.) You, Pete; blast the nigger.
Uncle P. (Continues singing:)
De weasel went to see de polecat’s wife,
You nebber smelt such a row in all yer—
George P. (Rushes in the cabin, interrupts the singing, and drags Pete out by the ear.) Pete! Pete, you infernal old rascal, is that the way you are crossing the river? Are those the songs they sing on the golden shore? Is this the way for a man to act when he has got his call—when he is all gone inside?
Uncle P. (Looking as if he had been caught in a hen-roost.) Marse George. I’s got de call, sah, an’ I’s gwine acrost de dark ribber soon, but I’s now braced up a little on de inside, an’ de ’scursion am postponed—you see, de ’scursion am postponed, sah!
George P. (Folding his arms, looking at Pete, as if in admiration of his impudence.) The excursion is postponed, is it? Well, this excursion is not postponed, you old scoundrel. (Seizes Pete by the coat-collar and runs him off stage, L.) [CURTAIN.]