ARTH. Yes—to hand her up the hammer and tin-tacks—
SIR F. (astonished). Hammer and tin-tacks? What the deuce are you talking about?
ARTH. (helplessly). I’m sure I don’t know—yes, I do. She said that when I showed a little energy—a little enthusiasm—a little something else, she’d perhaps give me a better answer.
SIR F. A better answer! What on earth can that mean?
ARTH. I can’t tell! (Suddenly.) Yes, I can, of course! It can only mean one thing (enthusiastically)—that she will let me hand her up the hammer—
SIR F. (shouting). Confound it, drop that hammer! You’ve been hammering that hammer into my ears for the last ten minutes! Now! (turning VALLANCE round to him face to face) speak like a man of sense—if you’ve got any left in you!
ARTH. Well, then, I ventured to speak to my uncle—
SIR F. Old Cosey?
ARTH. Yes, old Cosey—about Myrtle, and he coolly told me I mustn’t think of getting married for the next ten or fifteen years!