CLAPBOARD, gray wig, brown coat, dark pants.
EBENEZER, gray wig, blue coat with brass buttons, dark pants, hat, and
cane.
HORACE, modern suit, neat and tasty.
PETER, United States army overcoat, fatigue cap, red wig, red side
whiskers.
OBED, light Yankee wig, pea-jacket, tarpaulin hat, wide sailor
trousers, blue shirt.
TIMOTHY, black crop wig, smutty face, overalls, and woollen jacket.
LOUIS, tight black pants, with short legs, slippers, white stockings,
black coat, with short arms, buttoned to the throat, black cravat,
without collar.
SCENE.—_Apartment in MR. CLAPBOARD’S home. Lounge c., back.
Black velvet breakfast-jacket and smoking-cap lying across
the corner. Small table, R. Chairs, R. and L. Entrances, R.
and L._
_Enter MR. CLAPBOARD, R., followed by EBENEZER
CROTCHET._
_Clapboard._ This is the room, sir.
_Ebenezer._ O, it is! This is the mysterious abode of my runaway son.
Well, I don’t see anything very inviting here; a few miserable chairs,
a rickety lounge, a mean little table—
_Clap._ Come, come, sir; don’t abuse my furniture.
_Eben._ O, pooh, pooh! What business have you harboring a runaway scamp
who ought to be at home, you old, gray-headed ruffian?
_Clap._ Come, come, sir; once for all, I won’t be abused in my
own house. If your son chooses to hire a room in my house, to pay
handsomely for the same, and to behave himself in a gentlemanly manner,
here he stops just as long as he pays, you old heathen.
_Eben._ Old heathen! Confound you, do you know who you are talking to,
Mr. Claptrap?
_Clap._ Clapboard, sir; Clapboard is my name.
_Eben._ Do you know who you are talking to?
_Clap._ I’ve a pretty good idea. Some fiery old lunatic just escaped
from Bedlam.
_Eben._ Fire and fury! I’ll break this cane over your head, insolent!
_Clap._ Do; and then I’ll throw you and the pieces down those stairs,
catamount!
_Eben._ (_Aside._) O, this won’t do. (_Aloud._) I beg your pardon, Mr.
Claptrap.
_Clap._ Clapboard, sir.
_Eben._ Mr. Clapboard, I was a little hasty. You must attribute it to
the anxiety of a devoted parent. I have a son.
_Clap._ So I understand.
_Eben._ A week ago he left the parental mansion, for the purpose, as
he said, of recruiting himself at a quiet place in the country. All
very well, of course. I could bring nothing to say against that; but
yesterday I received an anonymous note, mailed at this place, bidding
me look out for my son, who, the note said, had formed a tender
attachment. Do you hear?—a tender attachment!
_Clap._ Well, what of it?
_Eben._ What of it? Hear the man! Sir! Mr. Claptrap!
_Clap._ Clapboard, sir.
_Eben._ Mr. Clapboard. Ten years ago I retired from the soap and candle
business with a fortune. This boy is my only son; young, impulsive,
thoughtless, he has come to the country; his susceptible heart is a
target, at which a thousand loving glances will be thrown by the eyes
of rural beauties—
_Clap._ Humbug! There isn’t a female within three miles of the
place. This is called “Bachelors’ Paradise.” There’s Jobson’s house,
Seymour’s, and mine; specially erected for the convenience of artists,
fishermen, and such like gentry, who want a quiet place in the country.
_Eben._ Is it possible! Then my son’s tender attachment—
_Clap._ It’s some trick played to frighten you.
_Eben._ Perhaps it is, but I have my doubts. Who lodges in this house
besides my son?
_Clap._ Well, sir, on the floor below, there’s Mr. Timothy Tinpan, a
nice, gentlemanly—tinker.
_Eben._ A tinker?—(_Aside._) Bachelors’ Paradise! (_Aloud._)
Gentlemanly humbug! Who else?
_Clap._ The next floor above is occupied by Mr. Peter Picket, a
military gentleman, who served his country in the great rebellion.
_Eben._ A soldier! (_Noise outside._) What’s that?
_Clap._ That’s him. He’s always going through his tactics. He dropped
his gun.
_Eben._ Did he! Then Mr. Peter Picket had better _pick it_ up. Well,
who else?
_Clap._ Next above him is Mr. Oakum, a well-mannered mariner, engaged
in the lumber trade.
_Eben._ Is that all?
_Clap._ No, sir; the floor above him, next the roof, is occupied by Mr.
Loopstitch, a tailor, a native of France.
_Eben._ Soldier, sailor, tinker, and tailor! Here’s nice company for my
boy.
_Clap._ O, they’re a nice, gentlemanly set, I assure you; very quiet.
Mr. Picket is apt to be a little restless nights; walks in his sleep;
and sometimes wanders about the house with a loaded musket. Mr.
Oakum is of rather a musical turn, and has his “bark upon the sea” a
little too often. Mr. Tinpan is very fond of rehearsing his war-cry,
“Old kettles to mend;” and Mr. Loopstitch is making frantic efforts
to master the trombone. But generally they are quiet, gentlemanly,
respectable individuals.
_Eben._ I should say so. And my son abandons his luxurious home, his
highly respectable connections, for such society as this?
_Clap._ Lord bless you, young gentlemen have their little freaks, you
know.
_Eben._ And so have old gentlemen too. I have a very sudden one myself.
For how long has my son engaged this room?
_Clap._ Let me see; he has paid me for it up to six o’clock to-night.
_Eben._ And after that I suppose it will be to let.
_Clap._ Of course. Though probably he’ll keep it himself.
_Eben._ Hark you, Mr. Claptrap.
_Clap._ Clapboard, sir.
_Eben._ Mr. Clapboard, I want to hire this room myself. What does my
son pay you?
_Clap._ Six dollars a week. Cheap enough.
_Eben._ All right. I’ll engage it for a week myself, for which I will
pay you twelve.
_Clap._ But, sir, he has the first choice.
_Eben._ No, he hasn’t; he’s not of age. I am his guardian, and I want
it myself; so here’s your money. At six o’clock I shall come and take
possession.
_Clap._ But, Mr. Crotchet—
_Eben._ No more words are necessary. You keep a house for the
entertainment of gentlemen who wish a quiet place in the country. You
certainly cannot refuse so handsome an offer as I have made you.
_Clap._ But your son—
_Eben._ Has comfortable quarters at home, where he belongs. You can
inform him of my appearance here, and of the bargain I have made. Tell
him to go home and amuse himself; that I shall positively take up my
quarters here at six o’clock. (_Aside._) There’s something wrong here;
“a tender attachment,” I’ll be bound; and I’m determined to find it
out. (_Aloud._) Good day, Mr. Claptrap.
[_Exit, R._
_Clap._ Clapboard, sir—Now here’s a nice mess! What will Mr. Horace
say to this, after he has got everything comfortably arranged for his
purpose, to be flustered in this manner. It’s too bad!
_Enter HORACE, R._
_Horace._ I say, Clapboard, why don’t you light up your stairs? I
nearly tumbled over an old chap just now, who was going down.
_Clap._ Old chap, indeed! Do you know who it was?
_Hor._ Haven’t the least idea.
_Clap._ Well, sir, it was your father.
_Hor._ My father? Whew! Then the old gentleman has found me out!
_Clap._ He certainly has; but he’s laboring under a terrible mistake.
Some one has sent him an anonymous note, bidding him look after you,
for you had formed a tender attachment.
_Hor._ A tender attachment? That’s some mischief of the fellows at
Jobson’s. Well, what does he propose to do?
_Clap._ He’s engaged this room.
_Hor._ Engaged this room? Why, Clapboard, it’s mine—isn’t it?
_Clap._ Until six o’clock. If you’ll remember, that was the time for
which you took it.
_Hor._ But I want it a week longer.
_Clap._ You’re too late. He’s engaged it, and paid for it; and will be
here at six o’clock to take possession.
_Hor._ Clapboard, you’ve played me a shabby trick!
_Clap._ I couldn’t help it, sir; he thrust the money into my hands;
said he was your legal guardian, and told me to send you home.
_Hor._ I’ll not go until my work is finished. Well, Clapboard, let him
come; his stay shall be short.
_Clap._ What will you do?
_Hor._ That’s a question for consideration. Six months ago my father
and myself differed with regard to my choice of a profession. He wished
me to be a lawyer. I determined to be a painter. He was immovable in
his choice. I was stubborn and sullen in mine. By mutual consent we
dropped the discussion, agreeing not to renew it for a year. I was at
once filled with the desire to produce something that would induce him
to agree with me, believing that if I could show that I had talent, he
would let me have my way. I immediately threw myself into the society
of artists, and by that means gained an inkling of the rudiments of
the profession, and I found I had some talent. But how to convince
my father? I hit upon the idea of attempting a painting; something
remarkable—a great allegorical national picture, “The Crowning of
Liberty,” a magnificent idea! To carry it out, I required a studio and
living models. I read your advertisement of “Bachelors’ Paradise;”
came down, engaged a room, fitted it up, and looked around for models.
But, alas! it was indeed a “bachelors’ paradise!” Not a female figure
within three miles! Of course I was obliged to put up with the stock
on hand; and with a soldier, a sailor, a tinker, and a tailor, as the
only models to be obtained, I have been obliged to draw upon fancy to
an alarming extent; and now it seems I am to be deprived of them by my
meddling, inquisitive, good old daddy.
_Clap._ It’s too bad, Mr. Horace. I wish I could help you out of the
scrape.
_Hor._ I wish you could. But as you can’t, suppose you go and hunt up
my models, and let me get to work.
_Clap._ Certainly, sir; I’ll send them in at once.
[_Exit, R._
(_HORACE takes off his coat and puts on breakfast jacket
and smoking-cap, then goes off, L., and returns with an
easel, which he sets up, L., then goes off, L., and brings
in canvas, brushes, and palette; arranges the canvas on
easel to face L., places chair L._)
_Clap._ (_Outside_, R., _while_ HORACE _is arranging his picture_.)
Hallo, down there, Tinpan!
_Timothy._ (_Outside, as if down stairs._) Faith, now, what’s wanting,
sure?
_Clap._ You’re wanted here.
_Tim._ All right. Be aisy, honey, till I mind the nose uv this
tay-kittle.
_Clap._ Hallo, Picket!
_Picket._ (_As if up stairs._) Yaw, mine fren.
_Clap._ You’re wanted in the studio.
_Pic._ Yaw, dat ish goot. I’ll come right avay pefore soon.
_Clap._ Hallo, Oakum!
_Oakum._ (_Up stairs._) Hallo, yerself!
_Clap._ Come down for a pose.
_Oak._ Ay, ay, Clapboard; in a jiffy.
_Clap._ Hallo, Loopstitch!
_Loopstitch._ (_In the distance._) Oui, oui, monsieur.
_Clap._ You’re wanted for a posish.
_Loop._ Vat you mean by dat, eh? Vot you call posish? I no comprehend.
_Clap._ Well, come and find out.
_Hor._ The models are aroused. Now for a season of inspiration!
_Enter PICKET, R., with a musket._
_Pic._ Ah, Meester Horace, how you vas? Berty mooch?
_Hor._ Ah, Picket, you’re right on hand.
_Pic._ Yaw, yaw; I ish coomed right along, by donder, mit mine gun upon
mine pack.
_Hor._ Like a true hero, and with the martial spirit inspiring your
bosom—hey?
_Pic._ Yaw, I shpose vat you mean, but I don’t know.
_Enter OAKUM, R._
_Oak._ Hallo! Heow are yeou anyheow? Goin’ at the picter ag’in?
_Hor._ Yes; I believe I can make my brush fly this afternoon.
_Oak._ Wal, yeou painter chaps dew beat all creation; that’s a fact.
I s’pose yeou know what yeou’re abaout; but darn me if I can see into
it. What’s the use er wastin’ yer time a flingin’ away paint on that
air diminutive quiltin’-frame. Would do more good ef yeou’d give old
Clapboard’s house a coat; it wants it bad enough!
_Enter LOOPSTITCH, R._
_Loop._ Sacre! vat for you want—hey? I have break off mine thread right
in de meedle of ze pantaloons.
HOR. You remember our bargain. You were to be at my service when wanted.
_Loop._ Service? Sacre, zis is too much all ze time. Monsieur Fusee
have no pantaloons; he make ze trouble, ze fuss; he raise vat you call
ze storm, if he no have ze pantaloons.
_Oak._ Well, let him sweat, Frenchy. I’ll lend him a pair.
_Enter TIMOTHY, R._
_Tim._ Arrah, b’ys, how are yees, onyhow? It’s the tip uv the morning
till yees, Misther Horace.
_Oak._ Hallo, Tim! How’s trade?
_Tim._ Thrade, is it? Bad luck to its! There’s none at all at all. It’s
loike the nose of Paddy Flinn’s pig—it’s away down in the mud.
_Oak._ Well, here’s hoping that, like Paddy Flinn’s pig, it may pick up
a bit.
_Tim._ That’s thrue for ye, Misther Oakum.
_Hor._ Now, then, let’s to work. Tinpan, you and Loopstitch don your
habiliments, and we’ll go to work.
_Tim._ Don—which is it?
_Loop._ Sacre! I no comprehend.
_Oak._ Darn it, Tim, jump into the Goddess of Liberty’s clos; and,
Loopstitch, put on that air gown of Victory’s.
_Tim._ Begorra! that’s a sinsible way of putting things.
[_Exit, L._
_Loop._ Victory! Oui, oui; I comprehend victory.
[_Exit, L._
_Oak._ Sich a set of darned stupid furriners I never did see.
_Pic._ Yaw; dey ish very hard of hearing, by donder!
_Oak._ Well, Picket, you managed to give us a pretty good scare last
night, walking round with that old blunderbuss! Ef yeou ain’t keerful,
yeou’ll let fly at some on us, and then there’ll be a purty case of
manslaughter.
_Pic._ Yaw; manslaughter ish goot. I like him mooch ven I fights mit
Sigel. By donder! I tink of dat ebery night in mine shleep, and I no
shleep at all.
_Oak._ Well, consarn yeour picter! deon’t yeou come up my way; if yer
du, I’ll souse yer head in a bucket of tar!
_Pic._ Yaw; I no like dat purty well.
_Enter TIMOTHY, L., dressed as the Goddess of Liberty;
red skirt, mail waist, blue drapery about shoulders._
_Tim._ Begorra! how’s that for a famale woman? What would Judy
O’Flanagan say to that? Tim Tinpan in a red petticoat? Whoo! kittles to
mind, kittles to mind!
_Enter LOOPSTITCH, in a long white gown, with a green
wreath in his hand._
_Loop._ Sacre! I feel all over like vat you call ze goost.
_Oak._ And darn me if you don’t look like one!
_Loop._ Vat you mean by dat—hey, Monsieur Oakum?
_Hor._ Come, now take your places.
_Tim._ All right; away wid yees. (_Takes position in centre of stage;
left hand against his breast, right hand pointing up._)
_Hor._ That’s right; now Victory. (_LOOPSTITCH gets upon a stool behind
TIMOTHY, and holds wreath over his head._) Very well. Now, then, for
the army and navy. (_PICKET stands R. of TIMOTHY, leaning upon his
musket; OAKUM stands L., his arms folded._) Good, good! Positions are
all right. Now, then, for the expressions.
_Tim._ Hould on a minute; there’s something crawling up my back.
_Hor._ Never mind, never mind!
_Tim._ But I do mind. It’s biting me, the ugly thief! Here, Frenchy,
give me a dig in the back.
_Loop._ Sacre! vare vill I find vat you call de spade?
_Oak._ Here; I’ll fix you. (_Gives TIMOTHY a thump on the back._)
_Tim._ Murder and Irish! you’ve broke my ribs!
_Hor._ Come, come, Tim; put a smiling expression upon your face.
_Tim._ Smile, is it, with a hornet crawling up my back!
_Hor._ We’re wasting time. Smile, I tell you.
_Tim._ Well, then, here goes. (_A horrible smile._)
_Hor._ Now, Loopstitch, triumph in _your_ face.
_Loop._ Oui, oui. Vive la triomphe!
_Hor._ That’s very good. Now, Picket, let a martial spirit glow in your
face.
_Pic._ Yaw, yaw. (_Starts, R._)
_Hor._ Where are you going?
_Pic._ For mine lager, mit de spirit up stairs.
_Hor._ No, no; you don’t understand me. Look as you looked when you met
the rebels, fierce for the fight.
_Pic._ Ven I fight mit Sigel?
_Hor._ Yes; as you did then, do now.
_Pic._ Yaw; den I’ll go right up stairs.
_Hor._ What do you mean?
_Pic._ Ven I fight mit Sigel, ven de repels coom, ve runned away.
_Oak._ What a darned sneaking coward!
_Tim._ Easy, now, Mr. Horace; my hand’s getting tired.
_Hor._ Let me see what I can do. (_Goes to easel, and takes brush._)
Now, steady, all.
_Tim._ Och, murder! the crayture’s crawling up my back again!
_Pic._ I am ash dry ash never vas.
_Hor._ Steady, steady!
_Tim._ Ow, my back! Give me a dig, Frenchy.
_Oak._ Confound you, I will! (_Hits TIMOTHY in the stomach, who doubles
up._)
_Tim._ Ow, murther, murther! (_Backs into LOOPSTITCH, who tumbles over.
TIMOTHY runs up and down stage howling._)
_Loop._ Sacre! you have broke me all to pieces.
_Hor._ Order, order! How do you suppose I can paint with such
confusion? You have spoiled everything.
_Tim._ Faith, it’s not myself that’s to blame.
_Oak._ Darn him! he’s got a nest of hornets under his jacket!
_Hor._ We can do nothing to-day. It’s now nearly six o’clock. An
individual will be here at six to take possession of my room; he has
hired it, and I must vacate.
_Oak._ What, hired the room over your head?
_Hor._ Yes; it’s a little plot of my father’s to get me home again. If
he stays here, I must give up my painting; and of course you will be
wanted no more as models.
_Loop._ Sacre! zat is too bad! ver mooch too bad!
_Tim._ Faith! must I lose my sitivation?
_Pic._ Yaw; we can’t come here some more!
_Hor._ That’s exactly the state of the case. Of course, as he’s my
father, it will not do for me to take any measures to cause him to
leave. With you it is different. If you can manage to make him sick of
his bargain to-night, we shall resume operations to-morrow, as usual.
_Oak._ Darn him, we’ll pitch him out of the winder!
_Hor._ No, no; no violence!
_Tim._ No, b’ys; no voilence. We’ll break his head intirely! That’s all.
_Hor._ He’s very particular to have everything about him quiet. I
offer no suggestions. If you can manage to scare him a little, I’ve no
objections.
_Tim._ Faith, lave us alone for that.
_Oak._ Come to my room, boys; we’ll fix the old skinflint! Come along.
_Tim._ Yaw; flint ish goot ven I fight mit Sigel.
_Oak._ O, never mind Seagull. Come along.
_Loop._ Sacre! Vat you fix his flint with? I no comprehend.
_Oak._ I’ll fix everything all right. Leave it to me. Come along.
[_Exit, R._
_Tim._ I’m wid yees. If there’s to be a shindy, count me in. [_Exit, R._
_Loop._ Monsieur, I be vat you call in ze dark ver much all over.
_Pic._ Yaw, it pe all covered mit de dark like de moonshine.
[_Exit LOOPSTITCH and PICKET, R._
_Hor._ What a set of stupid donkeys! If they manage to circumvent my
respected parent, I’ll forgive them. (_Exchanges jacket for coat, and
puts on hat. Stage dark._) How dark it is!
_Clap._ (_Outside, R._) You’re very prompt, sir.
_Eben._ (_Outside, R._) I am always prompt. Is the room ready?
_Clap._ (_Outside, R._) Yes, sir; walk this way.
_Hor._ There he is, right on time. There’s sure to be a rumpus, and I’m
bound to see the fun. [_Exit, L._
_Enter CLAPBOARD, with a lighted candle, which he places
on table, followed by EBENEZER._
_Eben._ Now, sir, I’ve caught you at your tricks! Why, he’s gone!
_Clap._ Why, you certainly didn’t expect to find him here.
_Eben._ I certainly did. Where is he?
_Clap._ He’s probably at Jobson’s, over the way. But he’ll be back
soon. He’ll be delighted to see you.
_Eben._ Clapboard, you lie! you know he won’t.
_Clap._ Come, come, Mr. Crotchet, don’t insult a man in his own room.
_Eben._ ’Tis false! it’s my room; and you may take yourself out of it
just as soon as you can!
_Clap._ You don’t mean to stay here!
_Eben._ Yes, I do. I’ve had another note from my unknown correspondent.
The object of his tender attachment visits him every evening, and I’m
bound to see her.
_Clap._ O, pshaw, Mr. Crotchet! you’ve been humbugged!
_Eben._ I know it; but I’ll be humbugged no longer; so here I’ll stay
to unmask the hypocrite!
_Clap._ Well, stay, then; but if you’re made uncomfortable, don’t blame
me.
_Eben._ What do you mean?
_Clap._ No matter; I’ve cautioned you. Keep your eyes open, and don’t
blame me. Remember you have been cautioned. Good night.
[_Exit, R._
_Eben._ Clapboard, Clapboard—What does he mean? Can there be any
danger? I’m an old fool! What business have I down in this unfrequented
place, all alone? I’ll go back. No, I won’t! Horace would laugh and
chuckle! He shan’t do that! Who’s afraid? I’ll make myself comfortable
on that lounge; and when he comes, he shall learn how terrible is the
vengeance of an enraged and injured parent. (_Reclines upon lounge.
Noise overhead; jumps up._) What’s that? It’s that infernal soldier!
Clapboard said he walks in his sleep. Suppose he should come here—with
a loaded musket too! Gracious! (_Trombone heard outside._) There’s the
tailor practising. What a confounded din!
_Oak._ (_Sings, outside, very loud._) “My bark is on the sea.”
_Eben._ There’s that sailor going it!
_Tim._ (_Outside, sings._) “Ould kittles to mind! Ould kittles to mind!”
_Eben._ And there’s the tinker. (_Trombone, “ould kittles,” and “bark
upon the sea,” all together._) What a confounded din! I wish I was well
out of it.
_Enter PICKET, with musket, slowly, on tiptoe._
_Pic._ Who goes dare?
_Eben._ O, heavens! There’s that insane old grenadier! What will become
of me?
_Pic._ Sh—! By donder, I see some noise! Sh—! Who goes dare? Sh—!
Somepody mit a gun. Advance pefore you speak, and say something. Sh—!
(_Creeps about the room on tiptoe._)
_Eben._ (_On lounge._) If he discovers me, I am a lost man!
_Pic._ By donder, if dare ish nopody here, vy don’t you speak? You vant
your coat-tails shot through mit a pullet. (_Creeps back to door, R._)
I fight mit Sigel. Sh—! By donder! I never hear so mooch silence pefore!
[_Exit, R._
_Eben._ He’s gone. I breathe again. O, Lord, what’s that? (_LOOPSTITCH
in the white robe passes slowly across stage, from R. to L., with his
arm outstretched, hand pointing straight before him. Exit, L._) An
apparition! What infernal place have I got into? I’ll go home at once.
(_Goes to R. The door is locked. LOOPSTITCH, without the robe, creeps
in, L., and gets behind lounge._)
_Loop._ Sacre! I vill give him a touch of my needles!
_Eben._ What an old donkey I am, to get into such a scrape! What shall
I do? I can’t get out. Suppose I alarm the neighborhood! That won’t do;
I should have the whole set upon me. I’ll try to sleep. (_Lies upon
lounge. LOOPSTITCH leans over and runs a needle into his arm._) O,
murder! What’s that? Confound this infernal place! (_LOOPSTITCH sticks
another needle._) O, my arm, my arm! (_Jumps up._) I can’t stand this!
Here! Help, help, help, help!
_Enter OAKUM, R. Creeps in very mysteriously; takes EBENEZER
by the wrist, and leads him down to the front of the
stage._
_Oak._ Silence! Sh—!
_Eben._ O, take me out of this! I’m a poor old man.
_Oak._ Silence! Sh—! Listen to me. You received a note from somebody—
_Eben._ Yes, I did. Confound somebody!
_Oak._ Silence! Sh—! “Tender attachment!” It’s all true, by jiminy!
_Eben._ I knew it.
_Oak._ Your son—has a tender attachment. The object of it is
approaching. It will soon be here.
_Eben._ You don’t say so!
_Oak._ Old man, you have a son; that son has a tender attachment; the
object of that tender attachment—sh—!—will soon be here.
_Eben._ Confound you, you said that before!
_Oak._ Be wise, be cautious, and you shall triumph. Silence! It comes!
the—object—comes! (_Creeps off, R._)
_Eben._ Well, that’s the queerest customer that ever I met. Hallo!
who’s this?
_Enter TIMOTHY, dressed as the Goddess of Liberty, with a
veil thrown over his face._
’Tis she, at last! Now to unmask the villain!
_Tim._ Idol of me sowl!
_Eben._ Irish, as I’m alive!
_Tim._ Och, yees illigent darlint! and did yees think yer own Kathleen,
accushla, would deny yees the comfort of her prisence?
_Eben._ So, madam, you are found out! Know, to your sorrow, that you
stand in the presence of the father of the unhappy young man you came
to meet?
_Tim._ It’s the ould man—is it? Faith, ould chap, how is yes, onyhow?
_Eben._ Insolent!
_Tim._ It’s a foine-looking ould fellow yees are; and is that yer own
hair, or is it a wig, I’d like to know.
_Eben._ Young woman, no more of this. I came to snatch my son from your
society.
_Tim._ My society! Faix, yes might do better. It’s a comfort I am to
him anyhow. You would be afther parting us at all at all!
_Eben._ Hold your tongue, and leave the room!
_Tim._ Hould yees blarney yerself, or I’ll—I’ll pull the hair from your
head!
_Eben._ Leave this room, instantly, or I’ll put you out!
_Tim._ You put me out, is it? Begorra! the sooner yees commince that
same, the better’s to the liking of Tim Tiupan.
_Eben._ (_Taking hold of him._) Leave the room, I say!
_Tim._ Off wid yees, or I’ll break ivery bone in yees body!
_Eben._ You will—will you? (_Takes hold of him._)
_Tim._ (_Throws off veil._) Arrah, boys, here’s a shindy! Come on, old
gint! (_Flourishes his fist._)
_Eben._ Here! Help, help, help! (_TIMOTHY clinches him._) Leave the
room!
_Enter HORACE, L., OAKUM, CLAPBOARD, and PICKET, R.
LOOPSTITCH crawls from behind lounge._
_Hor._ Why, father! what’s the matter?
_Eben._ O, you villain! you scamp! you renegade! You have come just
in time to save your father from a terrible fate! But I’ve found you
out! Your “tender attachment” is known to me. Look upon her! Can you
look upon your father’s face, and confess a tender attachment to such a
thing as that?
_Hor._ Not a tender attachment, father; but I will confess I am under
great obligations to that individual, Timothy Tinpan, the tinker.
_Eben._ What! is that woman a man?
_Tim._ Troth, and a foine ould Irish gintleman!
_Hor._ Yes, father, he is one of my models.
_Tim._ Faith, a model Irishman, by yer lave!
_Eben._ Models! What do you mean?
_Hor._ That I have been endeavoring to overcome your repugnance to my
becoming a painter, by attempting the execution of a painting which you
see upon that easel. These individuals have been my models. Timothy
Tinpan, the tinker.
_Tim._ That’s me, sure.
_Hor._ Obed Oakum, the sailor.
_Oak._ Ay, ay; second mate of the Harriet Jones.
_Hor._ Louis Loopstitch, the tailor.
_Loop._ Oui, oui; sal I make you a pair of pantaloons, monsieur?
_Hor._ And Peter Picket, the soldier.
_Pic._ Yaw, dat ish me, mit my gun upon mine pack.
_Eben._ What, and the note I received—
_Hor._ Is one of Harry Jones’s jokes. He confessed it to me an hour ago.
_Eben._ Clapboard, we’ve been making donkeys of ourselves!
_Clap._ Speak for yourself, Mr. Crotchet, I can’t join you in that.
_Eben._ Horace, I’m a meddling old fool. I should have trusted you.
I’ll go home. You may go on with your picture; and if out of the
material which I find here you can produce anything satisfactory, I’ll
give my consent to anything you ask.
_Hor._ Thank you, father. I’m rather discouraged at present; but if
these individuals can cure you of “a tender attachment,” they may be of
use to me; and if they can help me to achieve my purpose, you will be
obliged to admit that there are worse companions than a soldier—
_Pic._ Yaw, what fight mit Sigel.
_Hor._ A sailor—
_Oak._ Tarnal cute, when his bark’s on the sea.
_Hor._ A tinker—
_Tim._ A broth of a boy for minding the broken nose of a tay-kittle.
_Hor._ And a tailor—
_Loop._ Oui, oui; vith vat you call ze tender attachment for ze needle.
_Disposition of Characters at fall of the Curtain._
R. L.
LOOP. PICK.
TIM. OAK.
HOR. CLAP.
EBEN.