Doctor, that if _you_ can't do any more, it's _his_ turn. It's a wonder
you Doctors don't baptize the babies.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. At the last minute, he'll want to make a will--and you
know he hasn't made one. He'll want to remember the church and his
charities and his friends; and if he dies before he can carry out his
intentions, the minister will be blamed as usual. It's not fair.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Sh! Sh! My dear! These private matters--

DR. MACPHERSON. I'll trouble you, Mistress Batholommey, to attend to your
own affairs. Did you never hear the story of the lady who flattened her
nose--sticking it into other people's business?

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Doctor! Doctor! I can't have that!

MRS. BATHOLOMMEY. Let him talk, Henry. No one in this town pays any
attention to Dr. MacPherson since he took up with spiritualism.

REV. MR. BATHOLOMMEY. Rose! [_He motions to her to be silent, as_ PETER,
_coming up the stairs from the cellar, is heard singing_.

PETER. "Drop in the fat some apples red,
(Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)
Then spread it on a piece of bread,
(Tra, la, ritte, ra, la, la, la!)"

[_He opens the door, carrying a big bottle in his hand; hailing the_