[Exeunt Sailors.
Enter Medium, running across the stage, as pursued by the Blacks.
Med. Nephew! Trudge! run—scamper! Scour—fly! Zounds, what harm did I ever do to be hunted to death by a pack of bloodhounds? Why nephew! Oh, confound your long sums in arithmetic! I'll take care of myself; and if we must have any arithmetic, dot and carry one for my money.
[Runs off.
Enter Inkle and Trudge, hastily.
Trudge. Oh! that ever I was born, to leave pen, ink, and powder for this!
Inkle. Trudge, how far are the sailors before us?
Trudge. I'll run and see, sir, directly.
Inkle. Blockhead, come here. The savages are close upon us; we shall scarce be able to recover our party. Get behind this tuft of trees with me; they'll pass us, and we may then recover our ship with safety.