Tom. A pound a week?
O’Fi. No less, sorr. Now, as long as Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick chooses to claim a pound a week of me, it’s here at his service. But on the onderstanding that he resumes his name and rank, and ceases for ever the dishonourable and unsoldierlike practice of masquerading under a false name. D’ye onderstand me, sorr?
Tom. Yes—I understand you.
O’Fi. Do ye agree?
Tom. I’m so hungry, and seedy, and wretched, that I’d agree to anything. You couldn’t oblige me with the first week in advance?
O’Fi. Sorr, it has always been Terence O’Fipp’s maxim to pay everything in advance. I’ll go and get ye a pound, and ye can amuse yeself by writing out the receipt while I’m gone. (Going.)
Tom. (sitting down to write). Colonel, I don’t know whether to be very much obliged to you, or to look upon you as the coolest scamp unhung.
O’Fi. Sorr, take my word for it, ye’ve every reason to do both.
[Exit Colonel O’Fipp.