Pete. But whar is de ole boss?
Cato. Dat’s none you business. I dun tole you dat I is de doctor, an dat’s enuff.
Ned. Oh! do tell us whar de doctor is. I is almos dead. Oh me! oh dear me! I is so sick. [Horrible faces.]
Pete. Yes, do tell us; we don’t want to stan here foolin’.
Cato. I tells you again dat I is de doctor. I larn de trade under massa.
Ned. Oh! well, den, give me somethin’ to stop dis pain. Oh dear me! I shall die. [He tries to vomit, but can’t—ugly faces.]
Cato. Let me feel your pulse. Now put out your tongue. You is berry sick. Ef you don’t mine, you’ll die. Come out in de shed, an’ I’ll bleed you.
[Exit all—re-enter.
Cato. Dar, now take dese pills, two in de mornin’ and two at night, and ef you don’t feel better, double de dose. Now, Mr. Pete, what’s de matter wid you?