Scene.-Apartment in Mr. Clapboard's home. Lounge C., back. Black velvet breakfast-jacket and smoking-cap lying across the corner. Small table, R. Chairs, R. and L. Entrances, R. and L. Enter Mr. Clapboard, R., followed by Ebenezer Crotchet. Clapboard. This is the room, sir. Ebenezer. O, it is This is the mysterious abode of my runaway son. Well, I don't see anything very inviting here; a few miserable chairs, a rickety lounge, a mean little table- Clap. Come, come, sir; don't abuse my furniture. Eben. O, pooh, pooh What business have you harboring a runaway scamp who ought to be at home, you old, gray-headed ruffian? Clap. Come, come, sir; once for all, I won't be abused in my own house. If your son chooses to hire a room in my house, to pay handsomely for the same, and to behave himself in a gentlemanly manner, here he stops just as long as he pays, you old heathen. Eben. Old heathen Confound you, do you know who you are talking to, Mr. Claptrap? Clap. Clapboard, sir; Clapboard is my name