'Is that Sir Condy Rackrent in the chair?' says a stranger man in the
crowd.
'The same,' says I. 'Who else should it be? God bless him!'
'And I take it, then, you belong to him?' says he.
'Not at all,' says I; 'but I live under him, and have done so these two
hundred years and upwards, me and mine.'
'It's lucky for you, then,' rejoins he, 'that he is where he is; for was
he anywhere else but in the chair, this minute he'd be in a worse place;
for I was sent down on purpose to put him up, [TO PUT HIM UP: to put him
in gaol] and here's my order for so doing in my pocket.'
It was a writ that villain the wine merchant had marked against my poor
master for some hundreds of an old debt, which it was a shame to be
talking of at such a time as this.
'Put it in your pocket again, and think no more of it anyways for seven
years to come, my honest friend,' says I; 'he's a member of Parliament
now, praised be God, and such as you can't touch him: and if you'll take
a fool's advice, I'd have you keep out of the way this day, or you'll
run a good chance of getting your deserts amongst my master's friends,
unless you choose to drink his health like everybody else.
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