ARBALD. And marry them?
CLEVELAND. Ay. Armstrong is on the alert for some scheme to rescue
him--would fall into such a net as fishes do--and think it was his
mistress' cunning to serve him.
ARBALD. But where is the woman?
CLEVELAND. Rose has a girl in attendance upon her who is near her size
and figure--a mischievous wench, or I am no judge of physiognomies.
METCALF. [_Who has been listening, aside_.] Oho! [_Exits hurriedly and
secretly._
ARBALD. Bridget, they call her.
CLEVELAND. Send her to me. Fifty pounds will be more than her fidelity
can stand. Luckily we have the Chaplain with us. Have him ready.
ARBALD. I'll hunt Bridget up at once.
[_Exit_ ARBALD.
CLEVELAND. The plan is a good one. Now, Lady Wit, those who win may
laugh. But I was a blind fool ever to allow her to obtain that promise
from me.
_Enter_ METCALF.
METCALF. Hist! Major Cleveland.
CLEVELAND. Well, good fellow.
METCALF. [_Aside_.] Fellow! It is remarkable now that I, who daily
make a score of urchins tremble in their shoes at the frown of my
portentous brow, can't in the least make these people afraid of me.
Let me see what effect one of my frightfully severe looks would have.
[_Walks up to him_.
CLEVELAND. Well, sir, have you any business with me?
METCALF. No, no, sir. [_Aside_.] I suppose my urchins feel as I do
now. [_Aloud._] I've got an idea, sir, about the Captain.
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