Harry. Ha, ha, ha! Then I desire, sir, you'll turn Dick Buskin again out of your memory.
Midge. Can't, sir. The dear, good-natur'd, wicked son of a——beg your honour's pardon.
Harry. Oh, but Midge, you must, as soon as I'm dressed, step out and enquire whose house is this my father's at; I did not think he had any acquaintance in this part of the country. Sound what humour he's in, and how the land lies, before I venture in his presence. [Exeunt.
Enter Sir George Thunder, agitated, and
Landlord.
Sir Geo. I can hear nothing of these deserters; yet, by my first intelligence, they'll not venture up to London. They must still be lurking about the country. Landlord, have any suspicious persons ever put in at your house?
Land. Yes, sir; now and then.
Sir Geo. Zounds! what do you do with them?
Land. Why, sir, when a man calls for liquor that I think has no money, I make him pay beforehand.
Sir Geo. Damn your liquor, you self-interested porpoise! Chatter your own private concerns, when the public good, or fear of general calamity, should be the only compass! These fellows, that I'm in pursuit of, have run from their ships; if our navy's unmann'd, what becomes of you and your house, you dunghill cormorant?
Land. This is a very abusive sort of a gentleman; but he has a full pocket, or he wouldn't be so saucy. [Aside.] [Exit.