Sam.—I want to speak my piece, to be sure.
Tom.—Well, you will please to wait until I get through; it’s my turn now.
Sam.—No, ’tain’t your turn, either, my learned friend; excuse me for contradicting, but if I don’t stick out for my rights, nobody else will. My turn came before that fellow’s who said “his voice was still for war;” but I couldn’t think how my speech began, then, and he got the start of me.
Tom.—Very well; if you were not ready when your turn came, that’s your fault, and not mine. Go to your seat, and don’t bother me any more.
Sam.—Well, that’s cool, I declare,—as cool as a load of ice in February. Can’t you ask some other favor, Mr. Trotter?
Tom.—Yes; hold your tongue.
Sam.—Can’t do that; I’m bound to get off my speech, first. You see it’s running over, like a bottle of beer, and I can’t keep it in. So here goes:
“My name is Norval; on the Grampian Hills.
My father feeds—”
Tom [interrupting him, commences his piece in a loud tone.]—“Friends, Romans, countrymen!”