Polly.—Why your name is Mr. Punch, I know you!
Punch.—Yes, (aside) how on earth did that little girl learn my name? My little daughter, there are said to be one hundred rooms in my house—but I never could find but ninety—where the other ten are I never knew. But there are about one thousand big Norway rats who live in this house—run riot all night and don't pay no rent. Three days ago I wrote on a number of pieces of papers for the rats to leave—one of these papers was put in every rat-hole in this house.
Polly.—Have they left?
Punch.—I don't hear no noise for two days—I think they are making up their minds to seek homes elsewhere.
Polly.—Did you ever catch any of them?
Punch.—Oh, yes, bless you, I made a pot-pie of big fat rats but I could not eat it. I never did like rats any way you can cook them.
Polly.—What did you do with the pot-pie?
Punch.—I gave it to my wife's poor relations.
Polly.—Mr. Punch, 'mother says you are my grandfather's great uncle—when I was a little child you promised me a dollar!'
Punch.—I remember it, that was six years ago. (He sings and dances.) It is nice to be a father. (Punch puts Polly through a course of spelling.)