Peter—I was afraid the boys would drink so much, that they would not be sober enough to whip my political enemies to-day, if I did not adulterate my pure and strong rum, which came from Jamaica only last week.
Jack—That will do, Peter—that will do, for you always could tell a smoother and bigger lie than me, and I give it up.
Peter—Come, come, Jack—this won’t do. The sun will soon be climbing the eastern hills, and there’s no time to be lost. What’s to be done?
Jack—Fork over, Peter, and we’ll die, if necessary, in our effort to stuff the ballot boxes, and keep them stuffed all day, and drive your foes from the polls, and seize the boxes at sunset, and count the votes in favor of your delegates to the Convention.
Peter—Will you be true?
Jack—As money to the poor man.
Peter—Then awake the boys, and let them all come quickly, and get some stuff.
Jack (Scampers to the market)—Get up, you lazy drunken thieves, and run for your lives to Peter Cooper’s, and get some precious stuff. (They all spring from the butcher stalls, and run like bloodhounds for Peter’s groggery.)
Jack—Here we are, Peter.
Peter—So I perceive. (They all slyly smile and wink, and screw their expressive mouths.)