Mr. B. Well, Patrick, what is it?
Patrick. Shure, the horse is ready, sir.
Mr. B. Horse ready? What for?
Patrick. To be goin' for the Rimsins, shure!
Mr. B. [angrily]. We are not going for the Remsens! What do you mean by acting without orders? Take the horse out at once!
Patrick. Widout orthers, is it? An' it's mesilf, thin, that hitched up the crather every Christmas Ave I've lived wid yous for to go for them same.
Mr. B. Don't answer, sir; do as I bid you.
Patrick [aside]. It's plain the masther's rin his nose forninst something harrud. [Exit.]
Mrs. B. [going to Mr. B. and putting her arm about him, he sitting]. Dear John, send for the Remsens, please. See how everything conspires to ask it of you, from the prattle of the children to old Patrick himself. It is Christmas Eve, dear! How can we teach the dear chicks to be kind to each other unless we set the example? Send for our old friends, John. They've been with us every Christmas Eve these many years. You'll settle your affair with Mr. Remsen all the better, afterward.
Mr. B. Why, Mary, would you have me crawl at the feet of a man who tries to overreach me?