_Hermes. Charon_
_Her_. Ferryman, what do you say to settling up accounts? It will
prevent any unpleasantness later on.
_Ch_. Very good. It does save trouble to get these things straight.
_Her_. One anchor, to your order, five shillings.
_Ch_. That is a lot of money.
_Her_. So help me Pluto, it is what I had to pay. One rowlock-strap,
fourpence.
_Ch_. Five and four; put that down.
_Her_. Then there was a needle, for mending the sail; ten-pence.
_Ch_. Down with it.
_Her_. Caulking-wax; nails; and cord for the brace. Two shillings the
lot.
_Ch_. They were worth the money.
_Her_. That's all; unless I have forgotten anything. When will you pay
it?
_Ch_. I can't just now, Hermes; we shall have a war or a plague
presently, and then the passengers will come shoaling in, and I shall
be able to make a little by jobbing the fares.
_Her_. So for the present I have nothing to do but sit down, and pray
for the worst, as my only chance of getting paid?
_Ch_. There is nothing else for it;—very little business doing just
now, as you see, owing to the peace.
_Her_. That is just as well, though it does keep me waiting for my
money. After all, though, Charon, in old days men were men; you
remember the state they used to come down in,—all blood and wounds
generally. Nowadays, a man is poisoned by his slave or his wife; or
gets dropsy from overfeeding; a pale, spiritless lot, nothing like the
men of old. Most of them seem to meet their end in some plot that has
money for its object.
_Ch_. Ah; money is in great request.
_Her_. Yes; you can't blame me if I am somewhat urgent for payment.