Char. No, that I believe.
Sol. But I must go and see to the cellar. Miss, your most obedient servant.
[Exit.
Char. [With pride.] Your servant, Mr. Solomon.
Pet. Here's the letter from Constantinople. I wonder what it can be about. Now for it!
[Opens it.
Char. Aye, let us have it.
Pet. [Reads.] If so be you say so, I'll never work for you, never no more. Considering as how your Sunday waistcoat has been turned three times, it doesn't look amiss, and I've charged as little as any tailor of 'em all. You say I must pay for the buckram; but I say, I'll be damn'd if I do. So no more from your loving nephew,
Timothy Twist.
From Constantinople! Why, cousin Tim writ it.