Gin. Dey’ll come later, dey don’t git up so airly as de dogs. (Bell violently, voice again.) “Where’s that infernal niggro.” (Exit Gin rapidly, L.)
Mrs. D. Dat niggero gets so slow, efery day more. Dear me, I’ll nefer get my work done to-day between te togs, te letters oont, Meester Topp’s whims, oont twins, oont sooch like. (Exit R.)
Re-enter Ginger with Tick L.
Gin. Massa aint done brekfusted yet.
Tick. (Seating himself by table, R. C.) I’ll wait.
Gin. Sometimes massa’s powerful slow comin’ down, hadn’t yeh bettah send in youah cahd?
Tick. No, thanks; my business can be transacted with him only.
Gin. (Aside.) Dat’s bout de twins suah. ’Scuse me, but did you fotch de kids along?
Tick. What’s that?