“Are you able to drink a pot of ale, Dick?” cried the tall stranger.
“I think I am,” reiterated the dead man, very lack-a-daisically. And this answer satisfying his comrades, the articles of peace were subscribed to.
Now, then, the tall stranger began searching his pockets with a most consequential air.
“Gad, so!” said he at last; “not in my breeches pocket!—well, it must be in my waistcoat. No. Well, ‘tis a strange thing—demme it is! Gentlemen, I have had the misfortune to leave my purse behind me: add to your other favours by lending me wherewithal to satisfy these honest men.”
And Tarleton lent him the guinea. The watchmen now retired, and we were left alone with our portly ally.
Placing his hand to his heart he made us half-a-dozen profound bows, returned us thanks for our assistance in some very courtly phrases, and requested us to allow him to make our acquaintance. We exchanged cards and departed on our several ways.
“I have met that gentleman before,” said Tarleton. “Let us see what name he pretends to. ‘Fielding—Fielding;’ ah, by the Lord, it is no less a person! It is the great Fielding himself.”
“Is Mr. Fielding, then, as elevated in fame as in stature?”
“What, is it possible that you have not yet heard of Beau Fielding, who bared his bosom at the theatre in order to attract the admiring compassion of the female part of the audience?”
“What!” I cried, “the Duchess of Cleveland’s Fielding?”