Crok. Have you considered the practices of the Italian innkeepers, who skin an Englishman alive, when they catch him?
Todd. I shan’t mind that; I’ve undergone the operation so frequently in our own happy country.
Crok. Then there’s the danger of the roads. I don’t want to alarm you; but I had a dear friend once, who was travelling with his young wife, as you might be, to Naples—
Todd. To Naples?
Crok. To Naples—where they were stopped in a lonely mountain road by brigands.
Todd. Did you say—by—brigands?
Crok. Twenty of them—all armed to the teeth. Their captain, a ferociously handsome-looking scoundrel, clapped a carbine to my unfortunate friend’s head—and—
Todd. (earnestly) Blew out his brains?
Crok. All that heaven had granted to him.
Todd. Atrocious wretch! And your unfortunate friend’s wife—did they shoot her too?