Topp. (Facing Tick.) Who are you anyway?
Spratt. I can tell you! An imposter. Your rival who traduces you.
Topp. (Sneeringly.) My rival! That man! Fiddlesticks!
Spratt. He has traduced you, sir. He called you names. I’ll leave it to Mr. Ginger.
Gin. (Grinning.) Yis, sah.
Topp. What did he say, Potts? (Tick tries to catch Ginger’s eye. Pantomime of giving coin. Topp severely.) Now look here, Ginger! What ails you? What did he say?
Gin. I’m tryin’ to think of the word. It’s powerful long. A deceptive octagon, sah, that’s it.
Topp. Eh! What’s that?
Gin. A—de—um—that’s what I said.