_Enter_ WHETSTONE _and_ BLUEGRASS.
PUNCH.
Walk into mine shop, gentlemens. You do me great honors.
WHETSTONE.
Are you not the same man we met outside?
PUNCH.
Did he say I was honest?
WHETSTONE.
You have it.
PUNCH.
Mine good friends, that was mine brother.
WHETSTONE.
Why, you have the same marks. What are you up to?
PUNCH.
Mine friend, we were born twins; our own father couldn’t tell us apart.
BLUEGRASS.
Nature must have been in a proud mood when she duplicated you.
WHETSTONE.
What’s your name?
PUNCH.
Peter Punch.
WHETSTONE.
What’s your brother’s name?
PUNCH.
Peter Punch Number Two. We are twins; I swears it. Mine friends, these
are my beautiful suits; and in this bottle is the wonder of seven
hemispheres, the sublimely famous and justly celebrated unk-weed
liniment. By your firesides, rub it in well. With one wing of medicinal
gum, and the other of healing balsam, it flies to its proud home in the
bones. Gentlemens, rub it in well. There it works its marvels. This,
gentlemens, is the unk-weed art gallery [_pointing to two pictures_].
This one is before taking; that one, after taking. Gentlemens, rub it on
your skins inside, and put one of my suits on the outside, and then you
do marvels. I swears it.
WHETSTONE.
Which do you sell or rent,--the suits, or the liniment? [PUNCH _winks an
eye_.] Why do you wink?
PUNCH.
Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. Mine eyelid slips down.
Gentlemens, I cannot rent the wonderful unk-weed.
BLUEGRASS.
Peter Punch, you are a compound fraction. Give your doctor fraction a
quick drop, and your tailor fraction a fresh seaming. We have good sound
characters, but you and your tailor’s goose may mend them. I wish to
cast upon a French maid a romantic spell, something in the aurora
borealis fashion.
PUNCH.
Gentlemens, I haven’t got it [_winking his eye_].
BLUEGRASS.
Why do you wink?
PUNCH.
Mine friend, it is my little weakness. I swears it.
BLUEGRASS.
Try to keep your blind up. It makes me suspicious that something wrong
is going on inside. Peter, have you a rainbow suit?
PUNCH.
Mine dear friend, I’ve just what will suit you. I made it for a
gentlemans just like you, but it rained and he didn’t call for it.
BLUEGRASS.
He was only a fair-weather beau; but I’ll be a rainbow as well. [PUNCH
_shows him the suit_.] That will suit. Now show me a mask. [PUNCH _shows
him a mask_.] Why, it has a nose upon it like a barn-gable.
PUNCH.
Mine friend, a big nose makes a strong character [_laying his finger
along his nose_].
BLUEGRASS.
Its cheeks are smooth as a boy’s.
PUNCH.
Mine friend, how would a rainbow look with a beard on it? Oh, mine
friend!
BLUEGRASS.
Come out from under your disguise, Peter PUNCH. You have the eternal
fitness of things under your thumb, and that makes a good tailor and a
shrewd philosopher.
PUNCH.
I thank you, gentlemens.
WHETSTONE.
Show me some clothes worn by kings, princes, and potentates.
PUNCH.
Mine friend, let me take your measure. [_He takes_ WHETSTONE’S _measure
with a tape-line_.]
WHETSTONE.
Do you think you can take my measure for a suitable character suit with
your puny tape-line? Put up your line, and search Flatpuddle Smith’s
Biography of Great Men,--although I must say there are in that book some
of the biggest measures of the littlest men on earth; and besides, old
Heavyweight, who made his fortune putting sand in sugar, is on the first
page. They asked for sugar, and he sandpapered them. It’ll go rough with
him. Peter Punch, listen to my measure. I’m a merchant prince, Mayor
Whetstone, from Cornville, near the capital of Illinois, called Hercules
after my grand-uncle Hercules, who drove the Indians down the
Mississippi.
PUNCH [_presenting a robe_].
This is the robe that Julius Cæsar wore when he did thrice refuse the
crown up at the Capitol.
WHETSTONE.
Why did he refuse it? Didn’t it fit him? I don’t want that.
PUNCH [_presenting a suit_].
This is a suit worn by a shepherd boy as he tends his flocks,--young
Norval’s suit.
WHETSTONE.
Confound you! Do you think I want to be a shepherd boy, and herd sheep?
PUNCH [_presenting another suit_].
This is the suit of a Highlander.
WHETSTONE.
That’s high-sounding. Let me see it. What’s this?
PUNCH.
That goes around the waist like a petticoat.
WHETSTONE.
Where’s the other part?
PUNCH.
There is none.
WHETSTONE.
Take back your Highlander. [PUNCH _winks_.] Stop winking!
PUNCH.
Goodness gracious! you surprises me so. But here, mine friend. This is a
suit of King Richard the Lion-Heart, who slew thousands of Saracens in
one day.
WHETSTONE.
Why didn’t they stop him, the old villain? Peter Punch, you may as well
put down both shutters over your eyes. Business is closed.
[_Going._
PUNCH.
Wait, wait, mine dear friend; I have a beautiful suit of armor,
magnificent! I saves it for you. I keeps it wrapped up. It is the suit
of a grand knight-errant. [_Takes covering from mounted suit of armor._]
WHETSTONE.
Ah, that’s something like the thing. The business we are on is a sort of
a night errand. What line of business was he in? Did he travel much at
night?
PUNCH.
Mine friend, you is mistaken. The knight-errant was a great man who went
around foreign countries clad in a suit of mail, rescuing beautiful
damsels, over seven hundred years ago.
WHETSTONE.
So long ago as that? His clothes must be a little rusty; but you can rub
them well. You don’t say the suit is seven hundred years old?
PUNCH.
Over seven hundred years, mine friend [_winking_].
WHETSTONE.
Major, what would they say if they knew of this in Cornville? So the old
rascal used to go around in the night, rescuing beautiful damsels; and
they called them night errands! Didn’t he rescue the ugly damsels too?
PUNCH.
History is silent, mine friend.
WHETSTONE.
Well, I do declare! I’ll keep up his trade. I’ll build up the old
industry on these shores, and I’ll make it hum.
PUNCH.
I have English, French, Spanish, and other cheaper kinds; but I’ll give
you the suit of a grand German knight-errant, because he was a great
Teuton.
WHETSTONE.
What is the rent to-night for the so-called Teuton knight-errant?
PUNCH.
You shall have him cheap. I will calculate. One cent a year, one dollar
for each hundred years,--seven dollars, mine friend.
WHETSTONE.
Isn’t that tooting it rather high for a night errand?
PUNCH.
Mine friend, the Teuton knight-errant was the most substantial and
high-toned.
WHETSTONE.
Substantial and high-toned! I’ll invest. I’ll wake up your old Teuton
knight-errant, and make him hum.
[_Exeunt._