[Magnificently Tony enters from the bedroom. He is stout, floridly bronzed, sixty years old, vigorous, jovial, simple, and excitable. His great gift is for gesture. To-day we meet him in his Sunday best, a very brilliant purple suit with a more than oriental waistcoat which serves to display a stupendous gold watch chain. He wears a boiled shirt, an emerald-green tie, and a derby hat. He carries his new patent-leather shoes in his hand, He seems to be perspiring rather freely.]
Tony
Looka me! I’m da most stylish fella in da world.
Father McKee
I come up to talk to you, Tony.
Tony
I’m glad you come, Padre. How you like my clothes, eh? Costa playnta good money! [Attention is called to the shoes.] For da feet. . . .
Joe
[A motion to the wedding cake]: How’s it strike you, Tony.
Tony
Madonna! [He throws his shoes into the morris chair. His hat assumes a terrific angle. He cannot
