Queershanks.—Satisfied, sir! so you ought to be: I've got the nose of Mars, sir.
Manager.—My dear sir, what is it to the public if you've got Mars' nose and Pa's chin.
Queershanks.—I mean the classical Mars,—not my mother, you silly fellow. Then I've got the eye of a Cyclop, and the whiskers of Virginius. As yours is to be a classical theatre, will you give me a trial?
Manager.—What can you do?
Queershanks.—I'm very good in the ancient statues, only I've made them modern to suit the time. You know the "African alarmed by thunder?"
Manager.—Yes: a fine subject.
Queershanks.—I've modernised it into the "Black footman frightened by an omnibus:" this is it. (Music; he does it.)
Manager.—Very good! What else have you? Can you give me "Ajax defying the lightning?"
Queershanks.—I have modernised it into the "Little boy defying the beadle." (Music; he does it.)
Manager.—Capital! Have you any more?