Scene III.—A costumer’s shop. Punch arranging his costumes.

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.

Scene IV.—A street. Evening. Jack, disguised as an ape, on his way to the masquerade.

Enter Fopdoodle and Tom, his valet.

Fopdoodle.

By Jove, what is it?—Tom, my man, stand firm.—Audacious creature! So much hair on it, you know. I’d kindly thank you for your card.

Jack.

Apes and conundrums, having been made before pockets, do not carry their cards. Did you ever husk an ear of corn?

Fopdoodle.

Audacious beast! Fopdoodle’s no farmer.

Jack.

Then how do you expect to husk me by the ear? For the ear of an ape stands higher than a vegetable.

Fopdoodle.

What a misapplication of terms!

Jack.

Why did you not bring your shell with you?

Fopdoodle.

What shell?

Jack.

The shell of a goose-egg. Go get it, and put yourself in it, or I’ll make an omelet of you by assault and battery.

[Moving around Fopdoodle.

Fopdoodle.

By Jove, you’re a ferocious ape. I’ll have you arrested. Ho, there! Oh, policeman, come at once, I pray you, and quell this riot. Come, I command you. But he don’t come. What an abominable government we do have! If we had a king, then I’d be protected,—a nice, sweet king! Then, you know, I’d go to court; then I’d be My Lord Fopdoodle. Oh, I’d dearly love a king.

Jack.

What would you do if an enemy arose?

Fopdoodle.

Why, then the king would say: Upon the breeze that blows upon the borders of my land, I sniff the enemy. My lord, my good and trusty Lord Fopdoodle, hasten. Gather two hundred thousand men or so of our confiding yeomanry and stanchest citizens. Go put the enemy down.—And I would do it.

Jack.

But suppose he wouldn’t stay down?

Fopdoodle.

Tom, my man, stand firm.—When a king puts an enemy down, he puts him under ground.

Jack.

How would you raise the cash?

Fopdoodle.

If I saw the treasury running low, I’d rise and thus address the throne of majesty: Of late, most able king, thy servant, Lord Fopdoodle, whom thou hast ennobled, hath observed sundry of his former friends, shopkeepers, swelling with wealth and aping his nobility. I’ll strip them of their towering ambition by taking off the goods from their top shelves. And then the king would say, Good my lord, thou art aright; go thou and do it. And I would go and do it.

Jack.

Would you have any whims?

Fopdoodle.

Wouldn’t I have whims!—Tom, my man, stand firm.—Thousands of them. If a king and his lords can’t have their whims, they’re not so good as other people are. Some day, when the king was in a right good humor, I would say: Your valiant Majesty, an ape doth offend me much. I have a whim. I crave a boon, my liege, a boon, my sovereign; and he would say, I’ll grant it thee. Then I would say, I thank thee, good my sovereign. I would that all the apes in thy kingdom were destroyed. And he would say, Take this my signet ring, and let them perish.

Jack.

And you would kill poor Jack?

Fopdoodle.

Are you Jack? Mr. Northlake’s own son Jack, and cousin to beautiful Miss Violet? Why, Jack, I could love even an ape if he were cousin to the beautiful Miss Violet.

Jack.

Would you cozen an ape?

Fopdoodle.

[Aside] I’ll steal into Miss Violet’s secret heart through this half-open, half-witted gate of a cousin. [Aloud] I’m in love. Help me, Jack. About the king, good Jack, I was but joking; and if I were married to Miss Violet, and were the king’s lord, I would not hurt a hair on an ape’s body. Oh, she’s a sweet conundrum; a rose is a conundrum,—why, I’m a sweet conundrum myself. Jack, you’re a stunning good fellow, an awfully good ape. Let me stroke ape’s hair.

Jack.

Paws off! You Miss my cousin, but she’ll not miss you. I represent to-night a missing link which were well found in you. I’m in full dress,—Nature’s regulation costume for the ape; but you commit a barefaced outrage with your ape’s nature minus the hair. Meet me at the masquerade.

[Going.

Fopdoodle.

Tom, my man, stand firm!—Don’t go, Jack.—I’ll go too.

[Exeunt.