Act I

Scene I.—The Hall of an Inn.

Enter Tom Fashion and Lory, Postilion following with a portmanteau.

Fash. Lory, pay the postboy, and take the portmanteau.

Lory. [Aside to Tom Fashion.] Faith, sir, we had better let the postboy take the portmanteau and pay himself.

Fash. [Aside to Lory.] Why, sure, there’s something left in it!

Lory. Not a rag, upon my honour, sir! We eat the last of your wardrobe at Newmalton—and, if we had had twenty miles further to go, our next meal must have been of the cloak-bag.

Fash. Why, ’sdeath, it appears full!

Lory. Yes, sir—I made bold to stuff it with hay, to save appearances, and look like baggage.

Fash. [Aside.] What the devil shall I do?—[Aloud.] Hark’ee, boy, what’s the chaise?

Post. Thirteen shillings, please your honour.

Fash. Can you give me change for a guinea?

Post. Oh, yes, sir.

Lory. [Aside.] So, what will he do now?—[Aloud.] Lord, sir, you had better let the boy be paid below.

Fash. Why, as you say, Lory, I believe it will be as well.

Lory. Yes, yes, I’ll tell them to discharge you below, honest friend.

Post. Please your honour, there are the turnpikes too.

Fash. Ay, ay, the turnpikes by all means.

Post. And I hope your honour will order me something for myself.

Fash. To be sure; bid them give you a crown.

Lory. Yes, yes—my master doesn’t care what you charge them—so get along, you——

Post. And there’s the ostler, your honour.

Lory. Psha! damn the ostler!—would you impose upon the gentleman’s generosity?—[Pushes him out]. A rascal, to be so sursed ready with his change!

Fash. Why, faith, Lory, he had nearly posed me.

Lory. Well, sir, we are arrived at Scarborough, not worth a guinea! I hope you’ll own yourself a happy man—you have out-lived all your cares.

Fash. How so, sir?

Lory. Why, you have nothing left to take care of.

Fash. Yes, sirrah, I have myself and you to take care of still.