Tim. That’s me, sure.
Hor. Obed Oakum, the sailor.
Oak. Ay, ay; second mate of the Harriet Jones.
Hor. Louis Loopstitch, the tailor.
Loop. Oui, oui; sal I make you a pair of pantaloons, monsieur?
Hor. And Peter Picket, the soldier.
Pic. Yaw, dat ish me, mit my gun upon mine pack.
Eben. What, and the note I received—
Hor. Is one of Harry Jones’s jokes. He confessed it to me an hour ago.
Eben. Clapboard, we’ve been making donkeys of ourselves!