is always some cross luck happens to him. Yonder is my master, and he thinks I am half a dozen miles off with a letter that he gave me to Squire Houndly. Stand before me, man; perhaps he'll go past. (skulking behind his Com.)
Balt. (seeing him.) What, you careless rascal, are you here still, when I told you the letter was of consequence to me? To have this stick broke over your head is less than you deserve: where have you been, sirrah? (Holding up his stick in a threatening manner.)
Pet. O Lord, your honour! if you should beat me like stock fish I must e'en tell you the truth: for as I past by the cat and bagpipes a little while ago, I could not help just setting my face in at the door to see what they were all about; and there I found such a jolly company of 'Squire Freeman's voters, sitting round a bowl of punch, drinking his liquors and laughing at his grandeur, and making such a mockery of it, that I could not help staying to make a little merry with them myself.
Balt. (Lowering his stick.) Art thou sure that they laugh'd at him?—In his own inn, and over his own liquor?
Pet. Ay, to be sure, your honour: what do they care for that? When he orders a hogshead of ale for them out of his own cellar, they call it a pack of lamb's wool from the wool chamber. Don't they neighbour? (tipping the wink to his companion.)
Com. To be sure they do.
