Lod. I do,—this you mean.— Pulls in a Basket.
Sir Cred. Very well, put me into this Basket, and cord me down, send for a couple of Porters, hoist me away with a Direction, to an old Uncle of mine, one Sir Anthony Bubleton at Bubleton-Hall in Essex; and then [whip slap-dash], as Nokes says in the Play, I’m gone, and who’s the wiser?
Lod. I like it well.
Sir Cred. Nay, lose no time in applauding, I’ll in, the Carrier goes this Morning; farewel, Lodwick.— Goes Into the Basket.
I’ll be here again on Thursday. Lod. writes a Direction.
Enter Boy.
Lod. By all means, Sir,—Who’s there,—call a couple of Porters. Exit Boy.
Sir Cred. One word more, the Carrier lies at [the Bell in Friday-street], pray take care they set me not on my Head.— Pops in again.
Enter Boy and two Porters.
Lod. Come hither, cord up this Basket, and carry it where he shall direct.—Leander will never think he’s free from a Rival, till he have him in his possession—To Mr. Leander Fancy’s at the next door; say ’tis things for him out of the Country.—Write a Direction to him on the Basket-lid. Aside to the Boy.