Mrs. Brul. Mercy on us! cast away?
Pereg. On your coast, here.
Dennis. Then, compliment apart, sir, you take a ducking as if you had been used to it.
Pereg. Life's a lottery, friend; and man should make up his mind to the blanks. On what part of Cornwall am I thrown?
Mrs. Brul. We are two miles from Penzance, sir.
Pereg. Ha!—from Penzance!—that's lucky!
Mrs. Brul [Aside to Dennis.] Lucky!—Then he'll go on, without drinking at our house.
Dennis. A hem!—Sir, there has been a great big thunder storm at Penzance, and all the beer in the town's as thick as mustard.
Pereg. I feel chill'd—get me a glass of brandy.
Dennis. Och, the devil! [Aside.] Bring the brandy bottle for the jontleman, my jewel.