MAR. Ha, ha, Si! You need not fear. When I said our Nancy, I meant our girl——help, you understand.
SIMON. Oh! Ah! Then you are one of the family.
SIMON. Oh, I see. Don’t blush, but I’m sure I must be in the way. I’ll come again (_starts for door_).
MAR (_detaining him_). Simon, stop. If you leave this room we are enemies.
SIMON. But, Mark, I might blast your prospects, were it known that you and I——
MAR. Were friends, dear friends; that you were the only one who reached out a helping hand to me a destitute stranger, when I entered yonder city, five years ago.
SIMON. None of that, Mark. Don’t be shabby; helping hand, indeed, to a loft in the sixth story, a bed on a heap of rags, and dry bread washed down with water.
MAR. Divided your substance with me. Sim, when I forget your kindness, may I be as hungry as I was then.
SIMON. Then I’ll just step outside (_going_).
BESS. Nancy will be here in a minute. Mr.——
MAR (_coming down_ L., _leading_ SIMON, _the right hands clasped_). Bess, Miss Bradley, allow me to present a very dear friend,——Mr. Simon Stone, my chum.
BESS. Indeed (_offering her hand_). Mr. Stone, you are very welcome here.
SIMON (_takes hand_). Ah——yes; thank you. Thank you——very kind (_goes_ L.). Chums. Chums,——before her, too. There’s nothing shabby about that.
MAR. We’ll leave you, Simon, to your friend; but don’t go until I’ve seen you again.
(BESS _and_ MARCUS _exeunt_, C., _arm in arm._)
SIMON. Yes, thank you, much obliged. Well, now, that’s hearty; pretty as a picture, and he, there’s nothing shabby about him. Now, for Nancy. Won’t her eyes glisten when she sees me in this stunning get-up. I never did care for dress, but when I made up my mind to look after Nancy again, I said to myself, “Simon, don’t be shabby; do the thing in style;” and here I am, bran’ new from top to toe, from shampoo to shining leather, but with the same old heart inside of me, advancing double-shuffle to the tune of “Nancy is my darling.”
NANCY. Now, I’d like to know who——Good gracious! it’s Simon Stone.
SIMON. Nancy, it is. Simon, your Simon. How dye do (_offers hand_).
NANCY. Well, I declare! rigged out like a dancing-jack. You extravagant dog!
SIMON (_turning round_). Gay, ain’t it. Cut to order by an artist, (_turns round_); look at the “elegance of expression” in the back of that coat, and the _tout ensemble_ of these pantaloons. That’s what he called ’em, and I know they’re there, for I paid for ’em. Nothing shabby about me.