_Crusty._ After all the money I have spent for her education!
_Simper._ Good gwacious! after all the hair-oil I’ve poured ovaw them!
_Simper._ The care I’ve bestowed upon them!
_Crusty._ Every accomplishment has been given her!
_Simper._ They’ve been twimmed and curled day aftew day!
_Crusty._ And to lose her thus! It’s too bad!
_Simper._ And to be shorn and mangled thus! It’s hawwible!
_Crusty._ (_Sees his face in the glass._) What’s this? my whiskers gone! O you idiot! you infernal scoundrel, what have you done?
_Mike._ Faith, it’s the bist I could do: it’s mighty little I’m acquainted round here.
_Crusty._ I’ll teach you to mangle me in that way, you scoundrel! (_Runs after MIKE, who gets under table, L._)
_Mike._ Aisy, Mr. Crusty: yer wanted a close shave; and, ’pon my word, I’d a ’gin it to yer if you’d waited!
_Zeb._ By golly! Mike’s under de table. Well, I guess I better look out for squalls. (_Gets under table, R._)
_Simper._ Where’s that horrid bawbaw? (_Sees ZEB under table, R._) The scoundwel! you black imp!--
_Zeb._ Hold yer hush! hold you hush! what dous the Declamation--
_Crusty._ Come out of that, or I break the table about your head.
_Mike._ If you plaze, Mr. Crusty, I’d rather stop here. (_Enter TONSOR, L._)
_Crusty._ Oh! you’re back,--are you? Now, you villain, what do you mean by running off with my daughter?
_Ton._ I beg your pardon, sir; but I couldn’t help it: I was tempted.
_Ton._ The writer of this note (_reads_). “Dear Parson, Marry this couple quickly, and marry them strong. The young man is worthy of any young lady in the place. The father of the lady, an ugly old scamp, objects; but I’ll give my consent and will pay all damages. Yours, Jotham Crusty.” These were my instructions, which I have carefully obeyed. I’ve brought back your chaise; and you’ll find my wife in it ready to thank her dear father for his thoughtful attention in giving her the husband of her choice.
_Heavy._ (_Who has taken barber’s chair vacated by CRUSTY._) Crusty, you are slightly done.
_Crusty._ Oh, yes! this is nuts for you, you sour old hypochondriac. You think you are going to crow over me; but you shan’t. I’ve lost a daughter, but I’ve found a son. Here, Tonsor, here’s my hand: the old man’s sold, and must own up. Sell out this business, shut up shop, and come home.