_John Mood._ Then you mun think, measter, there was some stowage for the belly, as well as th' back too; such cargoes of plumb-cake, and baskets of tongues, and biscuits and cheese, and cold boil'd beef----And then in case of sickness, bottles of cherry-brandy, plague-water, sack, tent and strong-beer so plenty as made th' owld coach crack again! Mercy upon them! and send 'em all well to town, I say. _Man._ Ay! And well out on't again, _John_. _John Mood._ Ods bud! measter, you're a wise mon; and for that matter, so am I--Whoam's whoam, I say: I'm sure we got but little good, e'er sin' we turn'd our backs on't. Nothing but mischief! Some Devil's trick or other plagued us, aw th' dey lung! Crack goes one thing: Bawnce! goes another. Woa, says _Roger_----Then souse! we are all set fast in a slough, Whaw! cries Miss! Scream go the maids! and bawl! just as thof' they were stuck! and so, mercy on us! this was the trade from morning to night. But my Lady was in such a murrain haste to be here, that set out she would, thof' I told her it was _Childermas_ day. _Man._ These ladies, these ladies, _John_---- _John Mood._ Ah, measter, I ha' seen a little of 'em; and I find that the best----when she's mended, won't ha' much goodness to spare. Lord _Town._ Well said, _John_. Ha! ha! _Man._ I hope at least that you and your good woman agree still. _John Mood._ Ay! ay! much of a muchness. _Bridget_ sticks to me: Tho' as for her goodness--why, she was willing to come to _London_ too----But hawld a bit! Noa, noa, says I, there may be mischief enough done without you. _Man._ Why that was bravely spoken, _John_, and like a man. _John Mood._ Ah, weast heart, were Measter but hawf the Mon that I am----Ods wookers! thof' he'll speak stawtly too sometimes----But then he conno' hawld it----no! he conno' hawld it. Lord _Town._ Lady _Grace_. _Man._ Ha! ha! ha! _John Mood._ Ods flesh! But I mun hye me whoam! th' Coach will be coming every hour naw----but Measter charg'd me to find your Worship out; for he has hugey business with you; and will certainly wait upon you, by that time he can put on a clean neckcloth. _Man._ O _John_! I'll wait upon him. _John Mood._ Why you wonno' be so kind, wull ye? _Man._ If you'll tell me where you lodge. _John Mood._ Just i'th' street next to where your Worship dwells, the sign of the _Golden Ball_----It's Gold all over; where they sell ribbands and flappits, and other sort of geer for Gentlewomen. _Man._ A Milliner's? _John Mood._ Ay, ay, one Mrs. _Motherly_: Waunds! she has a couple of clever girls there stitching i'th' foreroom. _Man._ Yes, yes, she's a woman of good business, no doubt on't----Who recommended that house to you, _John_? _John Mood._ The greatest good fortune in the world, sure! For as I was gaping about streets, who should look out of the window there, but the fine Gentleman, that was always riding by our Coach side, at _York_ Races----Count----_Basset_; ay, that's he.