WARNING:  Could not break paragraph:  MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Counting.) One—­two—­three—­four—­five—­six—­ seven—­eight—­nine—­ten—­(Looking at him.) How do you feel?

PHIL:  (Completely puzzled.) Well, I can’t say I feel just full yet.

DUDLEY:  Go on, take a bite of roll.

PHIL:  Thank you! (He takes one bite—­as he goes for second bite, DUDLEY holds his hand—­as they all count ten.  Looking from one to another.) Say, what is this—­a prize fight?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (Looking at him closely.) (DUDLEY takes roll from PHIL.) It’s all right—­he still lives—­I feel better now.

PHIL:  I’m glad of that. (He starts to take another spoonful of soup.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Mousta, bring my rakoush. (Just as PHIL gets spoon to mouth, MOUSTA grabs it out of his hand and crosses with soup and roll to MRS. SCHUYLER, saying to PHIL in Persian:  “Rekkra milta suss.”)

PHIL:  Say, isn’t there some mistake?  I understood that was my rakoush.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  No, dear boy—­it’s ours. (She starts to eat.)

PHIL:  I guess that’s what they call to paflouka.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Oh, it tastes good.

PHIL:  It sounds good.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  Now, Mousta, my bird and salad. (He exits.)

PHIL:  I hope the bird’s an ostrich. (He hears MRS. SCHUYLER drink soup.) (Enter MOUSTA—­crosses with bird to MRS. SCHUYLER.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  No—­place it before him.

PHIL:  Yes—­put it down—­put it down.

MRS. SCHUYLER:  No one can cook a bird like Princey.

PHIL:  A bird?  It looks like an insect! (He sees them approaching him as before and grabbing the bird in his hand starts to make off with it—­they seize him and throw him into chair.)

PHIL:  (As DUDLEY snatches bird from him.) Say, what kind of a game is this anyhow?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I’ll explain.  The chef is enraged at me, and as he’s under suspicion of having put poison in a lady’s food that killed her in ten seconds—­

PHIL:  (Jumping up in alarm.) Poison?

MRS. SCHUYLER:  (With DUDLEY’S help setting him down again.) Yes, so we got you to try my food on—­

PHIL:  Oh, I see—­I’m the dog.

DUDLEY:  Precisely.  Now go on—­taste that bird.

PHIL:  No, thanks—­I’ve had enough.

ALL:  (Together.) Go on—­commence! (Business of making him taste bird.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  One—­

PHIL:  (Finishing counting for her.) Two—­(To nine.) (As he reaches ten, he sneezes.)

MRS. SCHUYLER:  I’m afraid to look. (Business of PHIL tasting bird, then getting idea of pretending to be poisoned, he commences to get a fit.) Help!  Bring a chair! (They finally get his feet on chair.) Well, we got him on the chair anyhow.

DUDLEY:  He’s poisoned—­

LETTY and BETTY:  We’ve killed him.