SCENE III.—Covent Garden.
Enter Trim, with a company of ragged fellows, with a cane.
1st Sol. Why then, I find, Mr. Trim, we shall come to blows before we see the French.
Trim. Harkee, friend, 'tis not your affair to guess or enquire what you're going to do; 'tis only for us commanders.
2nd Sol. The French? Pox! they are but a Company of scratching civet cats. They fight!
Trim. Harkee, don't bluster. Were not you a little mistaken in your facings at Steinkirk?
2nd Sol. I grant it; you know I have an antipathy to the French—I hate to see the dogs. Look you here, gentlemen, I was shot quite through the body, look you.
Trim. Prithee, look where it entered at your back.
2nd Sol. Look you, Mr. Trim, you will have your joke, we know you are a wit—but what's that to a fighting man?
Enter Kate.