DICK. Good mine host, still 'em; civil gamesters cannot play for 'em. HOST. I come amongst you, you maledictious slaves! I'll utter you all; some I'll take ready money for, and lay up the rest in the stocks: look to my box, I say! STEPH. Your box is like your belly, mine host: it draws all. Now for a suit of apparel. [_Throws the dice._ JACK. At whose suit, I pray? You're out again with the threes. STEPH. Foot! I think my father threw three when I was begotten: pox on't! I know now why I am so haunted with threes. JACK. Why, I prythee? STEPH. I met the third part of a knave as I came. JACK. The third part of a knave? 'sfoot! what thing's that? STEPH. Why, a serjeant's yeoman, man; the supervisor himself is but a whole one, and he shares but a groat in the shilling with him. DICK. That's but the third part indeed: but goes he no further? STEPH. No, he rests there. HUGH. Come, let's give o'er. STEPH. I thank you, sir, and so much a loser? there's but the waistband of my suit left:[70] now, sweet bones! HUGH. Twelve at all. [_Throws._ STEPH. Soft, this die is false. HUGH. False? you do him wrong, sir; he's true to his master. STEPH. Fullam! DICK. I'll be hanged, then! where's Putney, then, I pray you?[71] STEPH. 'Tis false, and I'll have my money again. HUGH. You shall have cold iron with your silver, then. STEPH. Ay, have at you, sir! _Enter_ HOST _and_ YOUNG FOSTER. HOST. I think he's here, sir. [_They draw their swords and fight_. YOUNG FOSTER _assists his uncle and the host, and_ _the cheats are beaten. Whilst they are fighting,_ _the bowlers enter and steal away their_ _cloaks_. ROB. I am sure he's now, sir. HUGH. Hold! hold! an' you be gentlemen, hold! ROB. Get you gone, varlets, or there's hold to be taken! HOST. Nay, sweet sir, no bloodshed in my house; I am lord of misrule; pray you, put up, sir. OMNES. 'Sfoot! mine host, where are our cloaks? HOST. Why, this is quarrelling: make after in time: some of your own crew, to try the weight, has lifted them: look out, I say. JACK. There will ever be thieves in a dicing house till thou be'st hanged, I'll warrant thee. [_Exit._ STEPH. Mine host, my cloak was lined through with orange-tawny velvet. HOST. How, your cloak? I ne'er knew thee worth one. STEPH. You're a company of coneycatching rascals: is this a suit to walk without a cloak in? ROB. Uncle, is this the reformation that you promised me?