Mr. H. No offence, my gude lass; I am Andrew Hope, and drum-major. I met some of my men in the street coming down, and they told me they could not have beds here.
Biddy. No, sir, plase your honour, only five that’s in the room yonder: if you’d be plased to walk up, and you’ll get your dinner immediately, your honour, as fast as can be dished, your honour.
Mr. H. No hurry, my gude lass. But I would willingly see the beds for my poor fellows, that has had a sair march.
Biddy. Why then, if your honour would take a fool’s advice, you’d not be looking at them beds, to be spoiling your dinner—since, good or bad, all the looking at ‘em in the wide world won’t mend ‘em one feather, sure.
Mr. H. My gude girl, that’s true. Still I’d like ever to face the worst.
Biddy. Then it’s up that ladder you’ll go.
Mr. H. No stairs?
Biddy. Oh, there are stairs—but they are burnt and coming down, and you’ll find the ladder safest and best; only mind the little holes in the floor, if you plase, your honour.
{Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks, and goes into the bedchamber above.
BIDDY, sola.