Lil. Ugh! Olangtsi will have to be dead by then.
Hiti. Oh no! Tiring of his exalted capacities he will hand them on to Yunglangtsi. It will be the occasion for a fresh lecture, as thus: ‘Gentlemen-pupils, apprentices, and paid workmen....’
New. Unpaid workmen, you mean.
Hiti. Sh! ‘Your immediate and polite attention.—’ (At the word ‘attention’ you will lay down your brushes, fold your hands submissively, and wait.) ‘In the instruction which it has been my honourable privilege to bestow all these years on your stubbornly benighted intelligences—’ (At these words you bow your heads) [hits fellow-student over head with a mahl-stick] (as an acknowledgment of what unprofitable Stick-in-the-muds you all are.)... ‘I have endeavoured to set before you the traditions of Wiowani, the greatest of all the ancient Masters, whose only surviving representative and follower I am—’ (At the word ‘am’ the complete Kow-tow is necessary), ‘and whose last and greatest masterpiece, entitled “The Threshold of the Muses,” here hangs before you for your instruction.’ (At these words you all turn and look at the great masterpiece as though you had never seen it before.)
[General derisive applause. Hiti in hitting at Nau-Tee knocks over paint-pot.
Nau. There! that was your fault!
Hiti. And your paint-pot.
Nau. Pah! Here, Swab, come and mop this foolish mess up!
[Tikipu obeys.
New. What meek Interrogation wants to know is—when are we going to strike for our pay?