PICKERING: 

Well, you are. 
But keep the tar.  How well I recollect, When Mike was in with us—­proud, strong, erect—­ Mens conscia recti—­flinging mud, he stood, Austerely brave, incomparably good, Ere yet for filthy lucre he began
To drive a cart as Stanford’s hired man, That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old Nick Appeared and tarred us all with the same stick.
(Enter Old Nick). 
I hope he won’t return and use his arts
To make us part with our immortal parts.

OLD NICK: 

Make yourself easy on that score my lamb;
For both your souls I wouldn’t give a damn! 
I want my tar-pot—­hello! where’s the stick?

FITCH: 

Don’t look at me that fashion!—­look at Pick.

PICKERING: 

Forgive me, father—­pity my remorse! 
Truth is—­Mike took that stick to spank his horse. 
It fills my pericardium with grief
That I kept company with such a thief.

(Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat and the tar-stick falls out.  Nick picks it up, looks at the culprit reproachfully and withdraws in tears.)

FITCH (excitedly): 

O Pickering, come hither to the brink—­
There’s something going on down there, I think! 
With many an upward smile and meaning wink
The navvies all are running from the cut
Like lunatics, to right and left—­

PICKERING: 
                                   Tut, tut—­
’Tis only some poor sport or boisterous joke. 
Let us sit down and have a quiet smoke.
                         (They sit and light cigars.)

      FITCH (singing): 

    When first I met Miss Toughie
      I smoked a fine cigyar,
    An’ I was on de dummy
      And she was in de cyar.

      BOTH (singing): 

    An’ I was on de dummy
      And she was in de cyar.

      FITCH (singing): 

    I couldn’t go to her,
      An’ she wouldn’t come to me;
    An’ I was as oneasy
      As a gander on a tree.

      BOTH (singing): 

    An’ I was as oneasy
      As a gander on a tree.

      FITCH (singing): 

    But purty soon I weakened
      An’ lef’ de dummy’s bench,
    An’ frew away a ten-cent weed
      To win a five-cent wench!

      BOTH (singing)

    An’ frew away a ten-cent weed
      To win a five-cent wench!

FITCH: 

Is there not now a certain substance sold
Under the name of fulminate of gold,
A high explosive, popular for blasting,
Producing an effect immense and lasting?

PICKERING: 

Nay, that’s mere superstition.  Rocks are rent
And excavations made by argument. 
Explosives all have had their day and season;
The modern engineer relies on reason. 
He’ll talk a tunnel through a mountain’s flank
And by fair speech cave down the tallest bank.