Fopdoodle.
We’re in bad odor with this referee. I smell foul play. Give me my spirit of hartshorn, or I faint.
Tom.
Here it is, good master.
[Fopdoodle smells of hartshorn, and Whetstone drinks out of a flask.
Scythe.
Time! One, two,—fire!
Fopdoodle.
Humpbacked sham!
Whetstone.