Pete. I's right proud ob you, I is. If dis yer heart ob mine didn't belong to a nigger, 'specs I should frow it at yer feet.
Kil. Faith, and it's an Irish heart she can have, anyway.
Polly (turning). Pity sakes alive! What are you doing here?
Kil. It's a missage I have for the colonel.
Pete. Lor, Polly. Dis yer is de soger what didn't shoot when dis yer nigger crossed de line. (Salutes Kil.) I's heaps glad to see you, sah. Does yer disremember me?
Kil. Faith, an' it's Pete, the colonel's guard. (Shaking hands with him.) What a foine by yees grown to. Shure it's a betther fitting coat yees have on, anyway.
Pete. Yas, indeed. I's Buttons, now, I is. Don't yer tink dis yer coat obercomes me?
Kil. Faith, it's a foine picture yees look in it.
Polly. I remember; you are the soldier that was so kind to Pete.
Kil. Oh, yees make me blush,—the sight of those bright eyes, and the swate words yees be afther saying. Shure, a foiner jig I never saw in the ould country. Will yees be afther telling the colonel I am here?