_O’Fi._ Stop, sorr. If this conversation is to continue, I must be informed whom I have the pleasure of addressing. Up to the present moment we have only learnt who you are _not_. Let us now proceed to ascertain who ye _are_. _Tom._ Colonel, I’m in that state of mental confusion, that I declare I don’t know who I am. Give me a little breathing time. When a young man believes he’s been Tom Cobb for twenty-five years, and then suddenly finds himself kicked out of Tom Cobb, with nowhere to go to, he _wants_ a little breathing time to look about him and find a name to let. _O’Fi._ Well, sorr, for the purpose of this interview one name’s as good as another. Here’s the _Toimes_ newspaper. Ye’ll find many a good name goin’ beggin’ in that. Choose yer name. Here’s a gintleman who was hanged this mornin’! Would ye like _his_ name? He’s done with it. _Tom._ Don’t be unpleasant, Colonel. _O’Fi._ Well, put your finger down; take the first that comes. (_Puts COBB’S finger on the newspaper at random._) Here’s one--the Bishop of Bath and Wells. _Tom._ Nonsense! Who’d take me for a bishop? _O’Fi._ Then try again. Mr. and Mrs. German Reed. _Tom._ Don’t be absurd. _O’Fi._ Well, once more. Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick. What d’ye say to that? _Tom._ But I don’t look like a major-general. _O’Fi._ Well, sorr, and what of that? I don’t look like a lieutenant-colonel, do I? _Tom._ No, you don’t; but a major-general in broken boots! _O’Fi._ Sure it’s where yer corns have been shootin’ through. Ye wouldn’t have a major-gineral with corns that couldn’t shoot, I suppose? _Tom._ No! _O’Fi._ Now, sorr, it’ll take a mighty deal of argument to pursuade me that you’re not Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick in broken boots. Now, I’ve the credit of the surrvice at stake, and when I see a major-gineral in broken boots me harrut bleeds for him, and I long to allow him a pound a week, sorr--a pound a week--to keep up his military position. _Tom._ A pound a week? _O’Fi._ No less, sorr. Now, as long as Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick chooses to claim a pound a week of me, it’s here at his service. But on the onderstanding that he resumes his name and rank, and ceases for ever the dishonourable and unsoldierlike practice of masquerading under a false name. D’ye onderstand me, sorr? _Tom._ Yes--I understand you. _O’Fi._ Do ye agree? _Tom._ I’m so hungry, and seedy, and wretched, that I’d agree to anything. You couldn’t oblige me with the first week in advance? _O’Fi._ Sorr, it has always been Terence O’Fipp’s maxim to pay everything in advance. I’ll go and get ye a pound, and ye can amuse yeself by writing out the receipt while I’m gone. (_Going._) _Tom._ (_sitting down to write_). Colonel, I don’t know whether to be very much obliged to you, or to look upon you as the coolest scamp unhung. _O’Fi._ Sorr, take my word for it, ye’ve every reason to do both. [_Exit COLONEL O’FIPP._