L. Ful. But what’s all this to Gayman?
Bred. Madam, this Wasteall was Mr. Gayman.
L. Ful. Gayman! Saw’st thou Gayman?
Bred. Madam, Mr. Gayman, yesterday.
L. Ful. When came he to Town?
Bred. Madam, he has not been out of it.
L. Ful. Not at his Uncle’s in Northamptonshire?
Bred. Your Ladyship was wont to credit me.
L. Ful. Forgive me—you went to a Black-Smith’s—
Bred. Yes, Madam; and at the door encountred the beastly thing he calls a Landlady; who lookt as if she had been of her own Husband’s making, compos’d of moulded Smith’s Dust. I ask’d for Mr. Wasteall, and she began to open—and did so rail at him, that what with her Billinsgate, and her Husband’s hammers, I was both deaf and dumb—at last the hammers ceas’d, and she grew weary, and call’d down Mr. Wasteall; but he not answering—I was sent up a Ladder rather than a pair of Stairs; at last I scal’d the top, and enter’d the inchanted Castle; there did I find him, spite of the noise below, drowning his Cares in Sleep.