Dennis. Oh fie! Think you, won't any master discharge a man sarvant that shames him? Thank your luck, I can't blush. But is the old fellow, our customer has brought, his intimate friend, he never saw but once, thirty years ago?
Dan. Ees; that be old Job Thornberry, the brazier; and, as sure as you stand there, when we got to his shop, they were going to make him a banker.
Dennis. A banker! I never saw one made. How do they do it?
Dan. Why, the bum baileys do come into his house, and claw away all his goods and furniture.
Dennis. By the powers, but that's one way of setting a man going in business!
Dan. When we got into the shop, there they were, as grum as thunder.—You ha' seen a bum bailey?
Dennis. I'm not curious that way. I might have seen one, once or twice; but I was walking mighty fast, and had no time to look behind me.
Dan. My companion—our customer—he went up stairs, and I bided below;—and then they began a knocking about the goods and chapels.—That ware no business o' mine.
Dennis. Sure it was not.
Dan. Na, for sartin; so I ax'd 'em what they were a doing;—and they told I, wi' a broad grin, taking an invention of the misfortunate man's defects.