Aim. You are merry, sir.
Gib. Ay, sir, you must excuse me, sir, I understand the world, especially the art of travelling: I don't care, sir, for answering questions directly upon the road—for I generally ride with a charge about me.
Aim. Three or four, I believe. [Aside.
Gib. I am credibly informed, that there are highwaymen upon this quarter—not, sir, that I could suspect a gentleman of your figure—But, truly, sir, I have got such a way of evasion upon the road, that I don't care for speaking truth to any man.
Aim. Your caution may be necessary—Then, I presume, you are no captain.
Gib. Not I, sir; captain is a good travelling name, and so I take it. It stops a great many foolish inquiries, that are generally made about gentlemen that travel;—it gives a man an air of something, and makes the drawers obedient.—And, thus far, I am a captain, and no farther.
Aim. And, pray, sir, what is your true profession?
Gib. O, sir, you must excuse me—upon my word, sir, I don't think it safe to tell ye.
Aim. Ha! ha! ha! upon my word, I commend you.—
Enter Boniface.