Sir Ben. Hey! who comes here?

Crab. Oh, this is he: the physician, depend on’t.

Mrs. Can. Oh, certainly! it must be the physician; and now we shall know.

Enter Sir Oliver Surface.

Crab. Well, doctor, what hopes?

Mrs. Can. Ay, doctor, how’s your patient?

Sir Ben. Now, doctor, isn’t it a wound with a small-sword?

Crab. A bullet lodged in the thorax, for a hundred!

Sir Oliv. Doctor! a wound with a small-sword! and a bullet in the thorax!—Oons! are you mad, good people?

Sir Ben. Perhaps, sir, you are not a doctor?

Sir Oliv. Truly, I am to thank you for my degree, if I am.

Crab. Only a friend of Sir Peter’s, then, I presume. But, sir, you must have heard of his accident?

Sir Oliv. Not a word!

Crab. Not of his being dangerously wounded?

Sir Oliv. The devil he is!

Sir Ben. Run through the body—

Crab. Shot in the breast—

Sir Ben. By one Mr. Surface—

Crab. Ay, the younger.

Sir Oliv. Hey! what the plague! you seem to differ strangely in your accounts: however, you agree that Sir Peter is dangerously wounded.

Sir Ben. Oh, yes, we agree in that.

Crab. Yes, yes, I believe there can be no doubt in that.

Sir Oliv. Then, upon my word, for a person in that situation, he is the most imprudent man alive; for here he comes, walking as if nothing at all was the matter.

Enter Sir Peter Teazle.

Odds heart, sir Peter! you are come in good time, I promise you; for we had just given you over!

Sir Ben. [Aside to Crabtree.] Egad, uncle, this is the most sudden recovery!

Sir Oliv. Why, man! what do you do out of bed with a small-sword through your body, and a bullet lodged in your thorax?