Patsy. Me head’s all right. It’s me stomach.
Dr. F. Do you still imagine you are an Irishman?
Patsy. I am, sir, Irish to the bone. (Leans forward as if pain in stomach. Rubs stomach with right hand and squirms. All this time he has been holding his throat with left hand and concealing the funnel.)
Mrs. F. Says he’s Irish. He’s crazy, Henry. I told you so. He’ll murder us all. (Movement of all but doctor toward doors as before.)
Norah. I give notice, Mrs. Fluke. I’ll not live in the house with a crazy mon.
Mike. Nayther will I. I give up me job. It will be hurtin’ the profession to mix with loonytics an’ Chinese.
Dr. F. (Irritated.) Hold your tongue, Mike. This is a most extraordinary case!
Mike. Indade it is! First he’s a haythen Chinee. Then he takes a drop too much an’ goes wild an’ pulls the clothes aff other people and says he’s an Irishman, bad luck to him. Another dram’ll turn him into a Dago, I belave. I quits to-day, doctor. (During this time Patsy’s uneasiness is increasing; finally he begins to prance round. Movement toward doors as before.)
Dr. F. Where is your pain, Patsy?