Fred. And I must kick his attorney.
Hum. (Reading.) "The curate's horse is dead."
Sir R. Pshaw! There's no distress in that.
Hum. Yes, there is, to a man that must go twenty miles every Sunday to preach three sermons, for thirty pounds a year.
Sir R. Why won't the vicar give him another nag?
Hum. Because 't is cheaper to get another curate ready mounted.
Sir R. Well, send him the black pad which I purchased last Tuesday, and tell him to work him as long as he lives. What else have we upon the list?
Hum. Something out of the common; there's one Lieutenant Worthington, a disabled officer and a widower, come to lodge at Farmer Harrowby's, in the village; he is, it seems, very poor, and more proud than poor, and more honest than proud.
Sir R. And so he sends to me for assistance? Hum. He'd see you hanged first! No, he'd sooner die than ask you or any man for a shilling! There's his daughter, and his wife's aunt, and an old corporal that served in the wars with him, he keeps them all upon his half pay.
Sir R. Starves them all, I'm afraid, Humphrey.