Tall. For fifty pounds, I have as many ideas as you.
Henry. You!
Tall. Yes, Mr. Captain; who gave you commission to talk o'my thick head?
Henry. What a blunder! [Aside.] But, really, Squire, is that young lady your sister?
Tall. Celia? yes, to be sure she is my sister, and that's your share of her too. [Snaps his Fingers.] She has a great fortune, and you captains are damned poor—but, huzza! I have it, tol de rol lol!—[Sings and capers.] You shall fill your pockets with French gold—Louis d'ors, sous and souces, you damned son of a—give me your hand.
Henry. Now, what—what is all—
Tall. You shall go halves in my slang match to-morrow. Colonel Epaulette has matched his Black Prince, to run against my Kick-him-Jenny—it's play or pay.—You shall back his Black Prince, take all the odds—I will get my jockey to lame Kick-him-Jenny; and, to give a colour for her not being able to run, I've mounted Sir John Bull to take an airing on her, ha! ha! ha!—I warrant she plays him some prank or other, so, as he's a bad horseman, I'll lay her accident upon him—she can't run—pays forfeit—you sweep the field—touch them all—and when you've gathered in the cash, we'll meet privately, and divide it, even, fair and honest, in our pockets—Damme, there's our snug ten thousand a piece with a twopenny nail!
Henry. And this, perhaps, you call honour?
Tall. Yes, 'tis good turf honour.
Henry. What! to be a scoundrel?