Excerpt
ACT I. SCENE I.—The Hall of an Inn. Enter TOM FASHION and LORY, POSTILION following with a portmanteau. Fash. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau. Lory. [Aside to TOM FASHION.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself. Fash. [Aside to LORY.] Why, sure, there's something left in it! Lory. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We eat the last of your wardrobe at New Malton—and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag. Fash. Why, 'sdeath, it appears full! Lory. Yes, sir—I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage. Fash. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do?—[Aloud.] Hark'ee, boy, what's the chaise? Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour. Fash. Can you give me change for a guinea? Post. Oh, yes, sir. Lory. [Aside.] So, what will he do now?—[Aloud.] Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be paid below. Fash. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well. Lory. Yes, yes, I'll tell them to discharge you below, honest friend. Post. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too. Fash. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means. Post. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself. Fash. To be sure; bid them give you a crown. Lory. Yes, yes—my master doesn't care what you charge them—so get along, you— Post. And there's the ostler, your honour. Lory. Psha! damn the ostler!—would you impose upon the gentleman's generosity?—[Pushes him out.] A rascal, to be so cursed ready with his change! Fash. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me. Lory. Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth a guinea! I hope you'll own yourself a happy man—you have outlived all your cares. Fash. How so, sir? Lory. Why, you have nothing left to take care of. Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still. Lory. Sir, if you could prevail with somebody else to do that for you, I fancy we might both fare the better for it. But now, sir, for my Lord Foppington, your elder brother. Fash. Damn my eldest brother. Lory. With all my heart; but get him to redeem your annuity, however. Look you, sir; you must wheedle him, or you must starve. Fash. Look you, sir; I would neither wheedle him, nor starve. Lory. Why, what will you do, then? Fash. Cut his throat, or get someone to do it for me. Lory. Gad so, sir, I'm glad to find I was not so well acquainted with the strength of your conscience as with the weakness of your purse. Fash. Why, art thou so impenetrable a blockhead as to believe he'll help me with a farthing? Lory. Not if you treat him de haut en bas, as you used to do. Fash. Why, how wouldst have me treat him? Lory. Like a trout—tickle him. Fash. I can't flatter. Lory. Can you starve? Fash. Yes. Lory. I can't. Good by t'ye, sir. Fash. Stay—thou'lt distract me. But who comes here? My old friend, Colonel Townly. Enter COLONEL TOWNLY. My dear Colonel, I am rejoiced to meet you here. Col. Town. Dear Tom, this is an unexpected pleasure!...