_Burs._ Here, Finsbury, is the money for Wheeler, who, between you and me, is as poor as a rat. _Wheeler_ (_affecting to laugh_). Well, I hope I shall be as rich as a Jew to-morrow. (_Bursal counts money_, _in an ostentatious manner_, _into Finsbury’s hand_.) _Fins._ A thousand thanks for all favours. _Rory_. You will be kind enough to _lave_ Mr. Talbot’s dress with me, Mr. Finsbury, for I’m a friend. _Fins._ Indubitably, sir: but the misfortune is—he! he! he!—Mr. Talbot, sir, has bespoke no dress. Your servant, gentlemen. (_Exit Finsbury_.) _Burs._ So your friend Mr. Talbot could not afford to bespeak a dress—(_Bursal and Wheeler laugh insolently_.) How comes that, I wonder? _Lord J._ If I’m not mistaken, here comes Talbot to answer for himself. _Rory_. But who, in the name of St. Patrick, has he along with him? _Enter_ TALBOT _and_ LANDLORD. _Talb._ Come in along with us, Farmer Hearty—come in. (_Whilst the Farmer comes in_, _the boys who were sitting on the stairs_, _rise and exclaim_,) Whom have we here? What now? Come down, lads; here’s more fun. _Rory_. What’s here, Talbot? _Talb._ An honest farmer, and a good natured landlord, who would come here along with me to speak— _Farm._ (_interrupting_). To speak the truth—(_strikes his stick on the ground_). _Landlord_ (_unbuttoning his waistcoat_). But I am so hot—so short-winded, that (_panting and puffing_)—that for the soul and body of me, I cannot say what I have got for to say. _Rory_. ’Faith, now, the more short winded a story, the better, to my fancy. _Burs._ Wheeler, what’s the matter, man? you look as if your under jaw was broke. _Farm._ The matter is, young gentlemen, that there was once upon a time a fine, bay hunter. _Wheel._ (_squeezing up to Talbot_, _aside_). Don’t expose me, don’t let him tell. (_To the Farmer_.) I’ll pay for the corn I spoiled. (_To the Landlord_.) I’ll pay for the horse. _Farm._ I does not want to be paid for my corn. The short of it is, young gentlemen, this ’un here, in the fine thing-em-bobs (pointing to Wheeler), is a shabby fellow; he went and spoiled Master Newington’s best hunter. _Land._ (_panting_). Ruinationed him! ruinationed him! _Rory_. But was that all the shabbiness? Now I might, or any of us might, have had such an accident as that. I suppose he paid the gentleman for the horse, or will do so, in good time. _Land._ (_holding his sides_). Oh, that I had but a little breath in this body o’ mine to speak all—speak on, Farmer. _Farm._ (_striking his stick on the floor_). Oons, sir, when a man’s put out, he can’t go on with his story. _Omnes_. Be quiet, Rory—hush! (_Rory puts his finger on his lips_.)