Jim F. (At door.) How is it outside, major? (Jim and T. look out intently.)
Sol. I. (Lighting A.’s candle after some trouble.) Der glimate vas hart on matches in Dexas. Mine frent, a goot shoke is ter best donic for te nerfs excebt a ziglone bolicy—
Adolph. I say now Mistah—ah, I cawn’t quite wecall youah name.
Sol. I. Solomon Isaacstein, Bromoter, Nye Yorick oont San Franzisco. (Confidentially.) Let me make a broposition, der macher vas a little slow.
Adolph. He keeps a beastly place heah, don’t you know.
Sol. I. (Enthusiastically with the Jew gestures of the comic papers.) Ogzactly, ogzactly, but petter oxpressed dan I could oxpress it. Dis blace vas not up mit der dimes even for Dexas. It needs elegdrick lights (suddenly struck by idea) oont, py chorge, (slaps A.’s shoulder till latter staggers) vat you say to pilliarts in dis zellar?
Adolph. By Jove! Good idea, don’t you know.
Sol. I. Sugchest it to Macher Downsley. My prudder Abe Isaacstein makes pilliart dables. He gives a tiscount of dwenty per zent to der drade, put I makes Abe gif me sefenty-fife per zent. I’ll tifide dot gommission. (Crash of thunder, lightning.) Himmel, vat a noise.
Mrs. B. I know we’ll all be killed.
Mrs. T. Pattie Baggs, are you hankering to be killed?