The Octoroon. Dion Boucicault

[Sitting, R. C.] A pretty mess you've got this estate in —

      Scud. Yes – me and Co. – we done it; but, as you were senior partner in the concern, I reckon you got the big lick.

      M'Closky. What d'ye mean.

      Scud. Let me proceed by illustration. [Sits, R.] Look thar! [Points with knife off, R.] D'ye see that tree? – it's called a live oak, and is a native here; beside it grows a creeper; year after year that creeper twines its long arms round and round the tree – sucking the earth dry all about its roots – living on its life – overrunning its branches, until at last the live oak withers and dies out. Do you know what the niggers round here call that sight? they call it the Yankee hugging the Creole. [Sits.]

      M'Closky. Mr. Scudder, I've listened to a great many of your insinuations, and now I'd like to come to an understanding what they mean. If you want a quarrel —

      Scudder. No, I'm the skurriest crittur at a fight you ever see; my legs have been too well brought up to stand and see my body abused; I take good care of myself, I can tell you.

      M'Closky. Because I heard that you had traduced my character.

      Scud. Traduced! Whoever said so lied. I always said you were the darndest thief that ever escaped a white jail to misrepresent the North to the South.