Marl. That's not necessary towards directing us where we are to go.
Tony. No offence; but question for question is all fair, you know. Pray, gentlemen, is not this same Hardcastle a cross-grained, old-fashioned, whimsical fellow, with an ugly face; a daughter, and a pretty son?
Hast. We have not seen the gentleman; but he has the family you mention.
Tony. The daughter, a tall trapesing, trolloping, talkative May-pole——The son, a pretty, well-bred, agreeable youth, that everybody is fond of.
Marl. Our information differs in this. The daughter is said to be well-bred and beautiful; the son, an awkward booby, reared up, and spoiled at his mother's apron-string.
Tony. He-he-hem—Then, gentlemen, all I have to tell you is, that you won't reach Mr. Hardcastle's house this night, I believe.
Hast. Unfortunate!
Tony. It's a damn'd long, dark, boggy, dirty, dangerous way. Stingo, tell the gentlemen the way to Mr. Hardcastle's; (winking upon the landlord.) Mr. Hardcastle's, of Quagmire Marsh; you understand me.
Land. Master Hardcastle's? Lack-a-daisy, my masters, you're come a deadly deal wrong! When you came to the bottom of the hill, you should have crossed down Squash-lane.
Marl. Cross down Squash-lane?