Inkle. Not in a match of this kind. Why, it's a table of interest from beginning to end, old Medium.
Med. Well, well, this is no time to talk. Who knows but, instead of sailing to a wedding, we may get cut up, here, for a wedding dinner: tossed up for a dingy duke, perhaps, or stewed down for a black baronet, or eat raw by an inky commoner?
Inkle. Why sure you ar'n't afraid?
Med. Who, I afraid? Ha! ha! ha! No, not I! What the deuce should I be afraid of? Thank Heaven I have a clear conscience, and need not be afraid of any thing. A scoundrel might not be quite so easy on such an occasion; but it's the part of an honest man not to behave like a scoundrel: I never behaved like a scoundrel—for which reason I am an honest man, you know. But come—I hate to boast of my good qualities.
Inkle. Slow and sure, my good, virtuous Mr. Medium! Our companions can be but half a mile before us: and, if we do but double their steps, we shall overtake 'em at one mile's end, by all the powers of arithmetic.
Med. Oh curse your arithmetic!
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
Another part of the Forest.—A ship at anchor in the bay at a small distance.—Mouth of a cave.