_Job._ A good round sum!--Damn me, I shall choke! [_Aside._] A ruffian, with a crape, puts a pistol to my breast, and robs me of forty shillings;--a scoundrel, with a smiling face, creeps to my fireside, and robs my daughter of her innocence. The judge can't allow restitution to spare the highwayman;--then, pray, Sir Simon,--I wish to speak humbly--pray don't insult the father, by calling money a reparation from the seducer. _Sir Simon._ This fellow must be dealt with quietly I see--Justice, my honest friend, is----justice.--As a magistrate, I make no distinction of persons.--Seduction is a heinous offence: and, whatever is in my power, I---- _Job._ The offender is in your power, Sir Simon. _Sir Simon._ Well, well; don't be hasty, and I'll take cognizance of him.--We must do things in form:--but you mustn't be passionate. [_Goes to the Table, and takes up a Pen._] Come, give me his christian and surname, and I'll see what's to be done for you.--Now, what name must I write? _Job._ Francis Rochdale. _Sir Simon._ [_Drops the Pen, looks at JOB, and starts up._] Damn me! if it isn't the brazier! _Job._ Justice is justice, Sir Simon. I am a respectable tradesman, your neighbour, and a freeholder.--Seduction is a heinous offence; a magistrate knows no distinction of persons; and a rascal musn't disgrace your estate four and twenty hours longer. _Sir Simon._ [_Sheepishly._] I believe your name is Thornberry? _Job._ It is, Sir Simon. I never blush'd at my name, till your son made me blush for yours. _Sir Simon._ Mr. Thornberry--I--I heard something of my son's--a--little indiscretion, some mornings ago. _Job._ Did you, Sir Simon? you never sent to me about it; so, I suppose, the news reach'd you at one of the hours you don't set apart for justice. _Sir Simon._ This is a----a very awkward business, Mr. Thornberry. Something like a hump back;--we can never set it quite straight, so we must bolster it. _Job._ How do you mean, Sir Simon? _Sir Simon._ Why--'tis a--a disagreeable affair, and--we--must hush it up. _Job._ Hush it up! a justice compound with a father, to wink at his child's injuries! if you and I hush it up so, Sir Simon, how shall we hush it up here? [_Striking his Breast._] In one word, will your son marry my daughter? _Sir Simon._ What! my son marry the daughter of a brazier! _Job._ He has ruined the daughter of a brazier.--If the best lord in the land degrades himself by a crime, you can't call his atonement for it a condescension. _Sir Simon._ Honest friend--I don't know in what quantities you may sell brass at your shop; but when you come abroad, and ask a baronet to marry his son to your daughter, damn me, if you ar'n't a wholesale dealer! _Job._ And I can't tell, Sir Simon, how you may please to retail justice; but when a customer comes to deal largely with you, damn me if you don't shut up the shop windows! _Sir Simon._ You are growing saucy. Leave the room, or I shall commit you.