Bon. Why, the one is gone to church.
Gib. To church! that's suspicious, I must confess.
Bon. And the other is now in his master's chamber: he pretends to be a servant to the other; we'll call him out, and pump him a little.
Gib. With all my heart.
Bon. Mr. Martin! Mr. Martin!
Enter Archer, brushing a Hat, and singing.
Gib. The roads are consumed deep; I'm as dirty as Old Brentford at Christmas.——A good pretty fellow—Who's servant are you, friend?
Arch. My master's.
Gib. Really!
Arch. Really.