A Trip to Scarborough; and, The Critic

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

TOM FASHION.
Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau.

LORY.
[Aside to TOM FASHION.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself.

TOM FASHION.
[Aside to LORY.] Why, sure, there’s something left in it!

LORY.
Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We ate the last of your wardrobe at New Malton—and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag.

TOM FASHION.
Why, ’sdeath, it appears full!

LORY.
Yes, sir—I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage.

TOM FASHION.
[Aside.] What the devil shall I do?—[Aloud.] Hark’ee, boy, what’s the chaise?

POSTILION.
Thirteen shillings, please your honour.

TOM FASHION.
Can you give me change for a guinea?

POSTILION.
Oh, yes, sir.