Trus. Why there you thought wrong again, Master.
Lady Ara. Yes, for you shou'd never think of writing a receipt till the money is in your pocket.
Short. Why, I did think 'twas in my pocket.
Trus. Look you, thinking again. Indeed, Mr. Short-yard, you make so many blunders, 'tis impossible but you must suffer by it, in your way of trade. I'm sorry for you, and you'll be undone.
Short. And well I may, when I sell my goods to people that won't pay me for 'em, till the interest of my money eats out all my profit: I sold them so cheap, because I thought I shou'd be paid the next day.
Trus. Why, there again! there's another of your thoughts; paid the next day, and you han't been paid this twelvemonth you see.
Short. Oons, I han't been paid at all, Mistress.
Lady Ara. Well, tradesmen are strange unreasonable creatures, refuse to sell people any more things, and then quarrel with 'em because they don't pay for those they have had already. Now what can you say to that, Mr. Short-yard?
Short. Say! Why—'Sdeath, Madam, I don't know what you talk of, I don't understand your argument.
Lady Ara. Why, what do you understand, man?