Peter Punch Number Two. We are twins; I swears it. Mine friends, these are my beautiful suits; and in this bottle is the wonder of seven hemispheres, the sublimely famous and justly celebrated unk-weed liniment. By your firesides, rub it in well. With one wing of medicinal gum, and the other of healing balsam, it flies to its proud home in the bones. Gentlemens, rub it in well. There it works its marvels. This, gentlemens, is the unk-weed art gallery [pointing to two pictures]. This one is before taking; that one, after taking. Gentlemens, rub it on your skins inside, and put one of my suits on the outside, and then you do marvels. I swears it.
Whetstone.
Which do you sell or rent,—the suits, or the liniment? [Punch winks an eye.] Why do you wink?
Punch.
Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. Mine eyelid slips down. Gentlemens, I cannot rent the wonderful unk-weed.
Bluegrass.
Peter Punch, you are a compound fraction. Give your doctor fraction a quick drop, and your tailor fraction a fresh seaming. We have good sound characters, but you and your tailor’s goose may mend them. I wish to cast upon a French maid a romantic spell, something in the aurora borealis fashion.
Punch.
Gentlemens, I haven’t got it [winking his eye].
Bluegrass.