Thos. Eight times to a fraction, Master Fathom.
Fath. What a master of figures you are! Eight times—now recollect that! And then found she fault with the trimmings. Now tell me, how many times took I back the gown for the trimmings?
Thos. Eight times more, perhaps!
Fath. Ten times to a certainty. How many times makes that?
Thos. Eighteen, Master Fathom, by the rule of addition.
Fath. And how many times more will make twenty?
Thee. Twice, by the same rule.
Fath. Thou hast worked with thy pencil and slate, Master Thomas! Well, ten times, as I said, took I back the gown for the trimmings; and was she content after all? I warrant you no, or my ears did not pay for it. She wished, she said, that the slattern sempstress had not touched the gown, for nought had she done but botched it. Now what think you had the sempstress done to the gown?
Thos. To surmise that, I must be learned in the sempstress’s art.
Fath. The sempstress’s art! Thou hast hit it! Oh, the sweet sempstress! the excellent sempstress! Mistress of her scissors and needles, which are pointless and edgeless to her art! The sempstress had done nothing to the gown; yet raves and storms my mistress at her for having botched it in the making and mending; and orders her straight to make another one, which home the sempstress brings on Tuesday last.