(Heinecke enters, limping, with a huge placard. One of his arms is stiff.)
Heinecke. Hurrah! Now we've----
Frau Heinecke. Will you be still!
Heinecke. (Reading the placard) "Welcome, beloved son, to your father's house." Fine, eh?
Frau Hebenstreit. Looks for all the world like a target!
Heinecke. With a heart in the middle! You old--!
Frau Heinecke. Hold your tongue!--(To Frau Hebenstreit) You know how he is!
(Heinecke takes a hammer and tacks and climbs on chair to tack up the placard.)
Frau Hebenstreit. I wonder where your son got all his fine manners anyway? Not from his family, did he?
Frau Heinecke. No, nor mine either. It was seventeen years ago, when our boss on the avenue got his title of Councillor of Commerce--there was a great time: carriages and fireworkings and free beer for all the workmen in the factory. Well, my husband was a little bit full--and why not?--Pa, quit pounding! when it didn't cost nothing? Well, one of the carriages run over him,--broke his leg and his arm!