Smooth. And your boys, how are they?—fine, promising, active fellows.—You’ve heard from MacLeech?
Tripes. Just received the note as I left home.
Smooth. All is quite right, you see, your cousin has the appointment at the Cape. I knew MacLeech was just the man for the details. A ship, I find, is to sail in about three weeks; and (significantly) I don’t think your cousin need be very scrupulous about freight and passage.
Tripes. You are too good, Mr. Smooth. I’m sure if anything that I can do,—my sense of all your kindness—— {283}
Smooth. I was thinking, when I saw those fine lads of yours, that another assistant to my under secretary’s deputy—but (between you and me) Hume thinks that one is more than enough. We must wait a little.
Takes TRIPES’ arm. [Exeunt.
SCENE X.—TURNSTILE’S parlour, 11½ A.M. Breakfast on the table; pamphlets and newspapers. In the corners of the room, books and philosophical instruments, dusty and thrown together; heaps of Parliamentary Reports lying above them. TURNSTILE alone, musing, and looking over some journals.
Turnstile. This headache! Impossible to sleep when one goes to bed by daylight. Experiments by Arago! Ah! a paper by Cauchy, on my own subject. But here is this cursed committee in Smithfield to be attended; and it is already past eleven. (Rising).
[Knock at the hall door.]
Enter Servant.