O’Fi. Tom Cobb, sorr, is dead and buried. I had the melancholy satisfaction of following him to his grave—me dear friend, Tim Whipple, accompanied me, and he’s at the present moment engaged in comforting my bereaved and inconsolable daughter.
Tom. I’m sure I’m very much obliged to him! Perhaps I could do that better than he?
O’Fi. I think not, sorr. He’s doing it very well—very well indeed.
Tom. Now, once for all, Colonel, this won’t do. There are plenty of people who know me if you don’t. Here’s my card—“T. Cobb, 6,” in red cotton (showing mark on pocket-handkerchief), and I’ve several other marks of the same character about me, which I shall be happy to show you at a more convenient opportunity.
O’Fi. Sorr, documentary evidence in red cotton isn’t worth the cambric it’s stitched upon. Ye’ll have to find some better proof of yer identity than that.
Enter Matilda.
Mat. Papa dear, Tim’s goin’ to take me to the theayter. (Sees Tom.) Oh!
Tom. My darlin’ Matilda! My beloved Matilda! I’m so, so, so glad to see you again, dear! Why, it’s three months since we met. (Kissing and hugging her.) What a fool I’ve been to cut myself out of this sort of thing for three months! (Kisses her.) How very, very well you’re looking! (Kisses her.)
Mat. Will ye koindly leave off kissin’ me till I’ve had the pleasure of bein’ inthrojuiced to ye?