BOX. Don’t flatter yourself, sir. (COX is about to break a piece of the roll off.) Holloa! that’s my roll, sir. (Snatches it away, puts a pipe in his mouth, lights it with a piece of tinder, and puffs smoke across to COX.)
COX. Holloa! What are you about, sir?
BOX. What am I about? I’m about to smoke.
COX. Wheugh! (Goes and opens window at BOX’S back.)
BOX. Holloa! (Turns round.) Put down that window, sir!
COX. Then put your pipe out, sir!
BOX. There! (Puts pipe on table.)
COX. There! (Slams down window and reseats himself.)
BOX. I shall retire to my pillow. (Goes up, takes off his jacket, then goes towards bed, and sits down upon it, L. C.)
COX (jumps up, goes to bed, and sits down on R. of BOX). I beg your pardon, sir—I cannot allow any one to rumple my bed. (Both rising.)