_Job._ Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look at my ledger--they'll find it right. I began upon a little; I made that little great, by industry; I never cringed to a customer, to get him into my books, that I might hamper him with an overcharged bill, for long credit; I earn'd my fair profits; I paid my fair way; I break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend will be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap his hand on his heart, and say as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate. _Bur._ 'Twas I kept your ledger, all the time. _Job._ I know you did. _Bur._ From the time you took me out of the workhouse. _Job._ Psha! rot the workhouse! _Bur._ You never mention'd it to me yourself till to-day. _Job._ I said it in a hurry. _Bur._ And I've always remember'd it at leisure. I don't want to brag, but I hope I've been found faithful. It's rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him your man of trust, for two and twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you, now you're in trouble. _Job._ [_Affected._] John--I beg your pardon. [_Stretching out his Hand._ _Bur._ [_Taking his Hand._] Don't say a word more about it. _Job._ I-- _Bur._ Pray, now, master, don't say any more!--Come, be a man! get on your things; and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods. _Job._ I can't, John; I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron and brass in my shop. _Bur._ Nay, consider what confusion!--pluck up a courage; do, now! _Job._ Well, I'll try. _Bur._ Aye, that's right: here's your clothes. [_Taking them from the Back of a Chair._] They'll play the devil with all the pots and pans, if you aren't by.--Why, I warrant you'll do! Bless you, what should ail you? _Job._ Ail me? do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me. _Bur._ Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. [_Going to help him on with his Clothes_] This is the waistcoat young mistress work'd with her own hands, for your birth-day, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can. _Job._ [_Throwing it on the Floor violently._] I'd as lieve get into my coffin. She'll have me there soon. Psha! rot it! I'm going to snivel. Bur, go, and get me another. _Bur._ Are you sure you won't put it on? _Job._ No, I won't. [_BUR pauses._] No, I tell you.-- [_Exit BUR._