_Job._ Well! What, you are going to be saucy to me, now I'm ruin'd?

_Bur._ Don't say one cutting thing after another.--You have been as noted, all round our town, for being a kind man, as being a blunt one.

_Job._ Blunt or sharp, I've been honest. Let them look at my ledger--they'll find it right. I began upon a little; I made that little great, by industry; I never cringed to a customer, to get him into my books, that I might hamper him with an overcharged bill, for long credit; I earn'd my fair profits; I paid my fair way; I break by the treachery of a friend, and my first dividend will be seventeen shillings in the pound. I wish every tradesman in England may clap his hand on his heart, and say as much, when he asks a creditor to sign his certificate.

_Bur._ 'Twas I kept your ledger, all the time.

_Job._ I know you did.

_Bur._ From the time you took me out of the workhouse.

_Job._ Psha! rot the workhouse!

_Bur._ You never mention'd it to me yourself till to-day.

_Job._ I said it in a hurry.

_Bur._ And I've always remember'd it at leisure. I don't want to brag, but I hope I've been found faithful. It's rather hard to tell poor John Bur, the workhouse boy, after clothing, feeding, and making him your man of trust, for two and twenty years, that you wonder he don't run away from you, now you're in trouble.

_Job._ [_Affected._] John--I beg your pardon.

[_Stretching out his Hand._

_Bur._ [_Taking his Hand._] Don't say a word more about it.

_Job._ I--

_Bur._ Pray, now, master, don't say any more!--Come, be a man! get on your things; and face the bailiffs that are rummaging the goods.

_Job._ I can't, John; I can't. My heart's heavier than all the iron and bra.s.s in my shop.

_Bur._ Nay, consider what confusion!--pluck up a courage; do, now!

_Job._ Well, I'll try.

_Bur._ Aye, that's right: here's your clothes. [_Taking them from the Back of a Chair._] They'll play the devil with all the pots and pans, if you aren't by.--Why, I warrant you'll do! Bless you, what should ail you?

_Job._ Ail me? do you go and get a daughter, John Bur; then let her run away from you, and you'll know what ails me.

_Bur._ Come, here's your coat and waistcoat. [_Going to help him on with his Clothes_] This is the waistcoat young mistress work'd with her own hands, for your birth-day, five years ago. Come, get into it, as quick as you can.

_Job._ [_Throwing it on the Floor violently._] I'd as lieve get into my coffin. She'll have me there soon. Psha! rot it! I'm going to snivel. Bur, go, and get me another.

_Bur._ Are you sure you won't put it on?

_Job._ No, I won't. [_BUR pauses._] No, I tell you.-- [_Exit BUR._

How proud I was of that waistcoat five years ago!--I little thought what would happen now, when I sat in it, at the top of my table, with all my neighbours to celebrate the day;--there was Collop on one side of me, and his wife on the other; and my daughter Mary sat at the farther end;--smiling so sweetly;--like an artful, good for nothing----I shou'dn't like to throw away a waistcoat neither.--I may as well put it on.--Yes--it would be poor spite not to put it on. [_Putting his Arms into it._]--She's breaking my heart; but, I'll wear it, I'll wear it. [_b.u.t.toning it as he speaks, and crying involuntarily._] It's my child's--She's undutiful,--ungrateful, --barbarous,--but she's my child,--and she'll never work me another.

_Enter BUR._

_Bur._ Here's another waistcoat, but it has laid by so long, I think it's damp.

_Job._ I was thinking so myself, Bur; and so----

_Bur._ Eh--what, you've got on the old one? Well, now, I declare, I'm glad of that. Here's your coat. [_Putting it on him._]--'Sbobs!

this waistcoat feels a little damp, about the top of the bosom.

_Job._ [_Confused._] Never mind, Bur, never mind.--A little water has dropt on it; but it won't give me cold, I believe.

[_A noise without._

_Bur._ Heigh! they are playing up old Harry below! I'll run, and see what's the matter. Make haste after me, do, now! [_Exit BUR._

_Job._ I don't care for the bankruptcy now. I can face my creditors, like an honest man; and I can crawl to my grave, afterwards, as poor as a church-mouse. What does it signify? Job Thornberry has no reason now to wish himself worth a groat:--the old ironmonger and brazier has n.o.body to board his money for now! I was only saving for my daughter; and she has run away from her doating, foolish father,--and struck down my heart--flat--flat.--

_Enter PEREGRINE._

Well, who are you?

_Pereg._ A friend.

_Job._ Then, I'm sorry to see you. I have just been ruin'd by a friend; and never wish to have another friend again, as long as I live.--No, nor any ungrateful, undutiful--Poh!--I don't recollect your face.

_Pereg._ Climate, and years, have been at work on it. While Europeans are scorching under an Indian sun, Time is doubly busy in fanning their features with his wings. But, do you remember no trace of me?

_Job._ No, I tell you. If you have any thing to say, say it. I have something to settle below with my daughter--I mean, with the people in the shop;--they are impatient; and the morning has half run away, before she knew I should be up--I mean, before I have had time to get on my coat and waistcoat, she gave me--I mean--I mean, if you have any business, tell it, at once.

_Pereg._ I _will_ tell it at once. You seem agitated. The harpies, whom I pa.s.s'd in your shop, inform'd me of your sudden misfortune, but do not despair yet.

_Job._ Aye, I'm going to be a bankrupt--but that don't signify. Go on: it isn't that;--they'll find all fair;--but, go on.

_Pereg._ I will. 'Tis just thirty years ago, since I left England.

_Job._ That's a little after the time I set up in the hardware business.

_Pereg._ About that time, a lad of fifteen years entered your shop: he had the appearance of a gentleman's son; and told you he had heard, by accident, as he was wandering through the streets of Penzance, some of your neighbours speak of Job Thornberry's goodness to persons in distress.

_Job._ I believe he told a lie there.

_Pereg._ Not in that instance, though he did in another.

_Job._ I remember him. He was a fine, bluff, boy!

_Pereg._ He had lost his parents, he said; and, dest.i.tute of friends, money, and food, was making his way to the next port, to offer himself to any vessel that would take him on board, that he might work his way abroad, and seek a livelihood.

_Job._ Yes, yes; he did. I remember it.

_Pereg._ You may remember, too, when the boy had finished his tale of distress, you put ten guineas in his hand. They were the first earnings of your trade, you told him, and could not be laid out to better advantage than in relieving a helpless orphan;--and, giving him a letter of recommendation to a sea captain at Falmouth, you wished him good spirits, and prosperity. He left you with a promise, that, if fortune ever smil'd upon him, you should, one day, hear news of Peregrine.

_Job._ Ah, poor fellow! poor Peregrine! he was a pretty boy. I should like to hear news of him, I own.