B. Why, hang your assurance, Dr. Fluke.
Dr. F. I disapprove of your indiscretion.
B. (Excitedly.) Fluke, I don’t think I ever saw quite such monumental effrontery as yours. That wig cost me one hundred and fifty dollars, one of the very best make by the celebrated Toupee.
Dr. F. Oh, we’ll not haggle about trifles. I’ll credit it on the bill for the electric machine. That cost five hundred dollars.
B. (Gesticulating.) Credit it on the bill! That’s cool, why confound your insolence! I’ve a mind to cane you on the spot.
Dr. F. But you can’t, you see. You have no cane. You are cured.
B. (With a roar.) Oh, this man will put me crazy if I stay here much longer. You’ll hear from me again, Dr. Fluke. You are a quack. (Bolts toward door as—)
Enter Norah, L., with tray, milk jug, sugar bowl, spoons and plate of crackers. B. runs against her and sends things flying as he exits.
Norah. Well, did yez iver see such a cyclone! (Commences picking up things around the stage.)