Per. How many miles from here to the Manor house?
Dennis. Six thousand!
Per. Six thousand!—yards you mean, I suppose, friend.
Dennis. Sir!—Eh? Yes, sir, I—I mean yards—all upon a counter!
Per. Six thousand yards upon a counter! Mine host, here, seems a little bewildered;—but he has been anxious, I find, for poor Mary, and 'tis national in him to blend eccentricity with kindness. John Bull exhibits a plain, undecorated dish of solid benevolence; but Pat has a gay garnish of whim around his good nature; and if, now and then, 'tis sprinkled in a little confusion, they must have vitiated stomachs, who are not pleased with the embellishment.
Enter Dan, booted.
Dan. Now, sir, you and I'll stump it.
Per. Is the way we are to go now, so much worse, that you have cased yourself in those boots?
Dan. Quite clean—that's why I put 'em on: I should ha' dirted 'em in t' other job.
Per. Set forward, then.