_Christy._ Beds! ay can yees, and for a dozen more--only the room above is tinder in the joists, and I would not choose to put more on the floor than two beds, and one shake-down, which will answer for five; for it’s a folly to talk,--I’ll tell you the truth, and not a word of lie. Wouldn’t it be idle to put more of yees in the room than it could hold, and to have the floor be coming through the parlour ceiling, and so spoil two good rooms for one night’s bad rest, jantlemen?--Well, Biddy, what is it they’re saying? _Biddy._ They say they don’t understand--can they have beds or not? _Christy._ Why, body and bones! No, then, since nothing else will they comprehend,--_no_,--only five, say,--five can sleep in it. [_The band divide into two parties,--Five remain, and the others walk off in silence._ _Biddy._ And it’s into the room you’d best walk up, had not yees, five jantlemen, that sleep? [_The five walk into the parlour--CHRISTY preparing to follow, carrying whiskey bottle and, jug--turns back, and says to BIDDY,_ Is it dumb they are all? or _innocents_? _Biddy._ Not at all innocents, no more than myself nor yourself. Nor dumb neither, only that the Scotch tongue can’t spake English as we do. _Christy._ Oh! if that’s all, after dinner the whiskey punch will make ‘em spake, I’ll engage. [_Exit CHRISTY._ _Biddy._ ‘Tis I that am glad they’ve taken themselves away, for there’s no cooking with all the men in the fire. _Enter Mr. ANDREW HOPE, Drum-major._ _Mr. H._ A gude day to you, my gude lassy. _Biddy._ The same to you, sir, and kindly. I beg your pardon for not knowing--would it be the drum-major, sir? _Mr. H._ No offence, my gude lass; I am Andrew Hope, and drum-major. I met some of my men in the street coming down, and they told me they could not have beds here. _Biddy._ No, sir, plase your honour, only five that’s in the room yonder: if you’d be plased to walk up, and you’ll get your dinner immediately, your honour, as fast as can be dished, your honour. _Mr. H._ No hurry, my gude lass. But I would willingly see the beds for my poor fellows, that has had a sair march. _Biddy._ Why then, if your honour would take a fool’s advice, you’d not be looking at them beds, to be spoiling your dinner--since, good or bad, all the looking at ‘em in the wide world won’t mend ‘em one feather, sure. _Mr. H._ My gude girl, that’s true. Still I’d like ever to face the worst. _Biddy._ Then it’s up that ladder you’ll go. _Mr. H._ No stairs? _Biddy._ Oh, there are stairs--but they are burnt and coming down, and you’ll find the ladder safest and best; only mind the little holes in the floor, if you plase, your honour. [_Mr. HOPE ascends the ladder while she speaks, and goes into the bedchamber above._ _BIDDY, sola._