Kite. She was brought to-bed yesterday.
Plume. Kite, you must father the child.
Kite. And so her friends will oblige me to marry the mother.
Plume. If they should, we'll take her with us; she can wash, you know, and make a bed upon occasion.
Kite. Ay, or unmake it upon occasion. But your honour knows that I am married already.
Plume. To how many?
Kite. I can't tell readily—I have set them down here upon the back of the muster-roll. [Draws it out.] Let me see—Imprimis, Mrs. Shely Snikereyes; she sells potatoes upon Ormond key, in Dublin—Peggy Guzzle, the brandy woman at the Horse Guards, at Whitehall—Dolly Waggon, the carrier's daughter, at Hull—Mademoiselle Van Bottomflat, at the Buss—then Jenny Oakum, the ship-carpenter's widow, at Portsmouth; but I don't reckon upon her, for she was married at the same time to two lieutenants of marines, and a man of war's boatswain.
Plume. A full company—you have named five—come, make them half a dozen—Kite, is the child a boy, or a girl?
Kite. A chopping boy.
Plume. Then set the mother down in your list, and the boy in mine; enter him a grenadier, by the name of Francis Kite, absent upon furlow—I'll allow you a man's pay for his subsistence; and now, go comfort the wench in the straw.