Fail. He has no means, and he loses at play; so that, for my part, I protest to gad, I am resolved he picks locks for his living.
Burr. Nay, to my knowledge, he picks locks.
Tim. And to mine.
Fail. No longer ago than last night he met me in the dark, and offered to dive into my pockets.
Non. That's a main argument for suspicion.
Fail. I remember once, when the keys of the Exchequer were lost in the Rump-time, he was sent for upon an extremity, and, egad, he opens me all the locks with the blade-bone of a breast of mutton.
Non. Who, this Loveby?
Fail. This very Loveby. Another time, when we had sate up very late at ombre in the country, and were hungry towards morning, he plucks me out (I vow to gad I tell you no lie) four ten-penny nails from the dairy lock with his teeth, fetches me out a mess of milk, and knocks me 'em in again with his head, upon reputation.
Isa. Thou boy!
Non. What shall I do in this case? My comfort is, my gold's all marked.