SCENE II.--_A dining-ball in_ NORTHLAKE’S _Villa_. POMPEY _and_ HANNIBAL

_arranging dining-table_.

POMPEY [_merrily_].

Yah! yah! I say, Hannibal, Lake Shore’s g’wone up. I make pile money on dat happy shore, shure. Stocks am de ting to put de money in de stockin’.

HANNIBAL [_gloomily_].

So! so! I lose pile money on dat Hudson Ribber. My banker telegram fo’ moh margin every fifteen minutes fo’ foh hours. De agony of dem hours I can nebber tell you, Pompey. De telegram-wire, and de tongue of lightnin’, holler, Moh margin! Hudson Ribber g’wone down,--moh margin! I and de ole woman scrape and scrape, and empty de big stockin’ bank dat de old woman hab under de bed fo’ de rainy day; still it holler, Moh margin! And den de old woman raise de washtub ’gainst her lawful husband. I nebber tink dat ribber railroad could sink so fast. Pompey, it am de fashion to condumdole wid your misfortunate neighbor; how much you condumdole wid me, Pompey?

POMPEY.

You hear me, chile! I lose moh money on dat Hudson Ribber dan you ebber see.

HANNIBAL.

Why, honey, how am dat? You hab no Hudson Ribber stock.

POMPEY.

I was g’wone down de ribber on de canal-boat, when I losed it. Yah, yah!

HANNIBAL.

Pompey, you am too friv’lous and vis’nary fo’ de bus’ness man,--fo’ de stock op’rator.

POMPEY.

Hannibal, I hab de call on you. Now let us confabulate togedder like sensible people. Ober two hours ago, I see de mess’nger boy bring de telegram. It ware from Mr. Northlake’s banker, and it read: You made five hundred thousand dollars to-day on Lake Shore stock. Now you hab seen Mr. Northlake cast down, way down,--tremendously, moh dan usual, fo’ ’bout a month,--way down, ’cause he lose all his own and Miss Violet’s fortune speculatin’,--way down; but when he read dat, he smile like de little chile; and he say to me: Pompey, dere’ll be a surprise-party yere to-night. Spread de banquet fo’ de guests. And now we doin’ it, ain’t we?

HANNIBAL.

I’m glad ob dat, fo’ Miss Violet’s sake, and de tings she gibs me; but dis am de point I must determinate before de limbs work easy: Ware am de margin g’wone dat I don’t hab,--de one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents?

POMPEY.

Dat, chile, am g’wone ware de weasel’s g’wone wid de egg.

HANNIBAL.

Dat am a big weasel to get away wid one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents. I’ll write my banker, shure, in de mornin’ ’bout de wrong p’ints he gibs me. Dat’s my p’intin’ ’pinion ’bout him. Maybe he’ll loan me it back again,--dat one thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven cents.

[_Exeunt._