TOM FASHION.
Cut his throat, or get someone to do it for me.
LORY.
Gad so, sir, I’m glad to find I was not so well acquainted with the strength of your conscience as with the weakness of your purse.
TOM FASHION.
Why, art thou so impenetrable a blockhead as to believe he’ll help me with a farthing?
LORY.
Not if you treat him de haut en bas, as you used to do.
TOM FASHION.
Why, how wouldst have me treat him?
LORY.
Like a trout—tickle him.
TOM FASHION.
I can’t flatter.
LORY.
Can you starve?
TOM FASHION.
Yes.
LORY.
I can’t. Good by t’ye, sir.