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THOMAS
Hey!--Odd's life! Mr. Fag!--give us your hand, my old fellow-servant.
FAG
Excuse my glove, Thomas:--I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad. Why, my
prince of charioteers, you look as hearty!--but who the deuce thought
of seeing you in Bath?
THOMAS
Sure, master, Madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postillion, be all
come.
FAG
Indeed!
THOMAS
Ay, master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make him a
visit;--so he'd a mind to gi't the slip, and whip! we were all off at
an hour's warning.
FAG
Ay, ay, hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir Anthony Absolute!
THOMAS
But tell us, Mr. Fag, how does young master? Odd! Sir Anthony will
stare to see the Captain here!
FAG
I do not serve Captain Absolute now.
THOMAS
Why sure!
FAG
At present I am employed by Ensign Beverley.
THOMAS
I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'n't changed for the better.
FAG
I have not changed, Thomas.
THOMAS
No! Why didn't you say you had left young master?
FAG
No.--Well, honest Thomas, I must puzzle you no farther:--briefly
then--Captain Absolute and Ensign Beverley are one and the same person.
THOMAS
The devil they are!
FAG
So it is indeed, Thomas; and the ensign half of my master being on
guard at present--the captain has nothing to do with me.
THOMAS
So, so!--What, this is some freak, I warrant!--Do tell us, Mr. Fag, the
meaning o't--you know I ha' trusted you.
FAG
You'll be secret, Thomas?
THOMAS
As a coach-horse.
FAG
Why then the cause of all this is--Love,--Love, Thomas, who (as you may
get read to you) has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter.
THOMAS
Ay, ay;--I guessed there was a lady in the case:--but pray, why does
your master pass only for ensign?--Now if he had shammed general
indeed----
FAG
Ah! Thomas, there lies the mystery o' the matter. Hark'ee, Thomas, my
master is in love with a lady of a very singular taste: a lady who
likes him better as a half pay ensign than if she knew he was son and
heir to Sir Anthony Absolute, a baronet of three thousand a year.
THOMAS
That is an odd taste indeed!--But has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag? Is
she rich, hey?
FAG
Rich!--Why, I believe she owns half the stocks! Zounds! Thomas, she
could pay the national debt as easily as I could my washerwoman! She
has a lapdog that eats out of gold,--she feeds her parrot with small
pearls,--and all her thread-papers are made of bank-notes!
THOMAS
Bravo, faith!--Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least:--but
does she draw kindly with the captain?
FAG
As fond as pigeons.
THOMAS
May one hear her name?