_Hosea._ I like that. My son, hold up your head: here's an example for you; a man who's anxious to pay,—turn out your toes,—who never puts off until to-morrow what can be done to-day. When you grow up, sonny, remember ready is the color of the winning horse on the racecourse of life,—Ready-cash; by whom that _dun_-colored nag Promise-to-pay is always distanced. Ha, ha, ha! There's a pair of 'em. I can't help it; it will pop out; in my office, at my table— _Rowell._ I'm in something of a hurry. _Hosea._ All right: step over to my office, and we'll settle up at once. Sonny, straighten up! You are released from official business, and may go off fishing. (_Pats him on the head._) That's good, Ha, ha, ha! I can't help it; 'twill pop out regardless of time and place. We wits know no pent-up Ut_aca_. You take, hey, Rowell? Ha, ha, ha! I really can't help it; in my office, at my table— _Rowell._ Mr. Jenks, I really must insist— _Hosea._ You can't stand it, hey? Then we'll move on. Sonny, stand by the flag. I'm going, going, gone. Ha, ha, ha! [_Exit, followed by_ ROWELL, _door in flat_.] _Hiram_ (_stands_ C., _and looks after them_). Sonny, sonny! Well, if the old man keeps on his degenerating pace, he'll be in his second childhood in six months. Calls me a boy, a mere boy: twenty last month. Keeps me in a short jacket, and shorter pantaloons. Makes me keep my hair sandpapered like an urchin of ten. It's about time this thing was stopped. If my arm creeps through this jacket much farther, I'm very much afraid it will rise in indignation, and smite my aged sire. "Honor your parents" is a very good maxim, but it may be carried a little too far. I'd go into the army, but he won't let me; swears I shall stand by the old flag. (_Clasps the auction-flag in his arms._) No matter: it's only a year, and I am free. Ah! here's Mattie Trueworth, a girl I would lay down my life for, and who laughs at me. Heigho! if I wasn't a boy, I should be very much in love with her. How d'ye do, Mattie? (_Enter_ MATTIE R.) _Mattie._ Oh! it's you, Hiram Jenks. _Hiram._ Yes, it's me, Mattie: the standard-bearer, (_pompously_) bearing the old flag, that has conquered in so many battles; under whose folds so many household gods have fallen, never to rise again. _Mattie._ Pshaw! you'd look more manly bearing the flag of your country. _Hiram._ S'pect I would, Mattie: it's what I'd like. But dad says No. _Mattie._ Oh, indeed! a dutiful son, truly. The house is sold: why do you wait here? _Hiram._ To get a word with you, Mattie. I've a great admiration for you. If I dared, I would tell you that I love you. (_Places flag in_ R. _corner back_.) _Mattie._ Don't you dare do any such thing. You must know I detest you, a mere boy; why, you're not yet out of jacket and trousers! _Hiram_ (_stretching up his arms_). You're mistaken, Mattie: I'm a long way out of them.