O’Fi. Now, sorr, ye’ve expressed a wish for an audience. On consideration I have resolved to grant it.
Tom. You’re very good, Colonel.
O’Fi. You may say that, sorr, for I have discovered that ye’re an imposthor. An out and out imposthor, sorr! Ye’re no more a gineral officer than I’m a gineral postman.
Tom. But I never said I was. You said I was a major-general; and you ought to know. It isn’t for me to set up my opinion on a military matter against a lieutenant-colonel’s.
O’Fi. Sorr, I’m a soft-hearted, simple ould fool, and at first your military bearing deceived me practised oi, and I was moved to pity by yer plausible tale and yer broken boots. I was touched by yer sorrows, and I was disposed to try and heal them.
Tom. The boots?
O’Fi. The sorrows. Now, sorr, a lie has ever been me scorrn and aversion, and an imposture me deepest abhorrence.
Tom. Colonel, I respect your sentiments, for they are my own. You discontinue my allowance, and you are quite right. Your hand.
O’Fi. (rather surprised). Sorr, ye spake like a gintleman. Ye’re not a gintleman, but ye spake like one. (Sees note in Tom’s hand.) What’s that?
Tom. It’s a letter to Docket and Tape, in which I confess myself to be the Tom Cobb they’re advertising for,—and offering to give them all the information in my power.