Doctor—Twenty-five cents.
Peter—Business is very dull now, and your rival Apothecary, down the Bowery, would not have charged more than twenty cents. Can’t you take twenty, Doctor?
Doctor—Twenty will do, if you will promise to come again, when nigger Jim beats you.
Peter (very slightly blushes)—I will certainly come again, when I have any more business in the Apothecary line. (Gives the Doctor an old pistareen, and departs, with poultices and bandages over his eyes and nose.)
SUNDAY EVENING.
Peter’s Groggery full of political strikers and vagabonds and criminals of every hue—A primary election to come off early in the morning.
Peter—Now, boys, I want you to put me through to-morrow.
Thieves—We will—we will.
Peter—If you will, I’ll give you all the most glorious drunk you have had since the last election.
Head Thief—We will elect a majority of our friends to the Convention, and you may regard your nomination as sure.