Pereg. I am that Peregrine.
Job. Eh? what—you are—? No: let me look at you again. Are you the pretty boy, that———bless us, how you are alter'd!
Pereg. I have endur'd many hardships since I saw you; many turns of fortune;—but I deceived you (it was the cunning of a truant lad) when I told you I had lost my parents. From a romantic folly, the growth of boyish brains, I had fix'd my fancy on being a sailor, and had run away from my father.
Job. [With great Emotion.] Run away from your father! If I had known that, I'd have horse-whipp'd you, within an inch of your life!
Pereg. Had you known it, you had done right, perhaps.
Job. Right? Ah! you don't know what it is for a child to run away from a father! Rot me, if I wou'dn't have sent you back to him, tied, neck and heels, in the basket of the stage coach.
Pereg. I have had my compunctions;—have express'd them by letter to my father: but I fear my penitence had no effect.
Job. Served you right.
Pereg. Having no answers from him, he died, I fear, without forgiving me.
[Sighing.