_Enter_ LIEUTENANT O'CONNOR.

So, here comes one would make a grenadier--Stop, friend, will you
list?

_O'Con_. Who shall I serve under?

_Trounce_. Under me, to be sure.

_O'Con_. Isn't Lieutenant O'Connor your officer?

_Trounce_. He is, and I am commander over him.

_O'Con_. What! be your serjeants greater than your captains?

_Trounce_. To be sure we are; 'tis our business to keep them in
order. For instance, now, the general writes to me, dear Serjeant, or
dear Trounce, or dear Serjeant Trounce, according to his hurry, if
your lieutenant does not demean himself accordingly, let me know.--
Yours, General Deluge.

_O'Con_. And do you complain of him often?

_Trounce_. No, hang him, the lad is good-natured at the bottom,
so I pass over small things. But hark'ee, between ourselves, he is
most confoundedly given to wenching.


_Enter_ CORPORAL FLINT.