Mar. Poor lad! he’s a sailor, and but aukward as yet, and so shy I warrant—but will your honour be kind to him.
Pick. Kind to him? Why, I am to pass for his father—am not I?
Mar. Aye, I wish your honour had been poor Tommy’s father—but no such luck for me, as I say to my husband.
Pick. Indeed!—Your husband must be very much obliged to you, and so am I.
Mar. But do your honour see my poor Tommy, once dressed in his fine smart clothes——
Pick. Damme! I don’t half like that Tommy.
Miss P. Yes, yes, you shall—but now go and fetch him here to us; I should like much to see him.
Mar. (going) Do you now, madam, speak kindly to him—for poor boy, he’s quite dash’d.
[Exit.
Pick. Yes, and he has dash’d some of my teeth out—plague on him.