Enter Inkle.
Now, nephew!
Inkle. So, Mr. Medium.
Med. Zounds, one would think, by your confounded composure, that you were walking in St. James's Park, instead of an American forest: and that all the beasts were nothing but good company. The hollow trees, here, sentry boxes, and the lions in 'em, soldiers; the jackalls, courtiers; the crocodiles, fine women; and the baboons, beaus. What the plague made you loiter so long?
Inkle. Reflection.
Med. So I should think; reflection generally comes lagging behind. What, scheming, I suppose; never quiet. At it again, eh? What a happy trader is your father, to have so prudent a son for a partner! Why, you are the carefullest Co. in the whole city. Never losing sight of the main chance; and that's the reason, perhaps, you lost sight of us, here, on the main of America.
Inkle. Right, Mr. Medium. Arithmetic, I own, has been the means of our parting at present.
Trudge. Ha! A sum in division, I reckon.
[Aside.
Med. And pray, if I may be so bold, what mighty scheme has just tempted you to employ your head, when you ought to make use of your heels?