A fight is a noisy affair, Labor, and wakes many sleepers. There is one over in the corner who should not on any account be disturbed. For, once wakened, he is hard to quiet.
LABOR
You speak too late—come—help—my shirt is tight!
FLIP
(seizing the shirt, gives one tug and then withdraws in haste, holding his nose.)
You are too sweaty, Labor. Sorry, old top, but I can’t stand it. Muscles are a rare thing nowadays, and I would like to see yours, since you are not afraid to waken that old fear under the vines. And these modern epics are amusing, wherein Achilles carries a dinner pail and Ulysses turns syndicalist. But, if I must act as a second and pull off men’s shirts, commend me to a man who has money enough to buy soap and time for a bath, and that, though he were not half so good to look upon.
LABOR
(outraged, and flinging his shirt at Flip)
Take you my sweat upon your silly face
And stand aside to watch me fight alone....
CAPITAL