When a new farce begins with duck and green peas, it promises well; the sympathies of the audience are secured, especially as the curtain rises but a short time before every sober play-goer is ready for his supper.  Mr. Gabriel Snoxall is seated before the comsstibles above mentioned—­he is just established in a new lodging.  It is snug—­the furniture is neat—­being his own property, for he is an unfurnished lodger.  A bachelor so situated must be a happy fellow.  Mr. Snoxall is happy—­a smile radiates his face—­he takes wine with himself; but has scarcely tapped the decanter for his first glass, before he hears a tap at his door.  The hospitable “Come in!” is answered by the appearance of Mr. Dunne Brown, a captain by courtesy, and Snoxall’s neighbour by misfortune.  Here business begins.

The ancient natural historian has divided the genus homo into the two grand divisions of victimiser and victim.  Behold one of each class before you—­the yeast and sweat-wort, as it were, which brew the plot!  Brown invites himself to dinner, and does the invitation ample justice; for he finds the peas as green as the host; who he determines shall be done no less brown than the duck.  He possesses two valuable qualifications in a diner-out—­an excellent appetite, and a habit of eating fast, consequently the meal is soon over.  Mr. Brown’s own tiger clears away, by the ingenious method of eating up what is left.  Mr. Snoxall is angry, for he is hungry; but, good easy man, allows himself to be mollified to a degree of softness that allows Mr. Brown to borrow, not only his tables and chairs, but his coat, hat, and watch; just, too, in the very nick of time, for the bailiffs are announced.  What is the hunted creditor to do?  Exit by the window to be sure.

A character invented by farce-writers, and retained exclusively for their use—­for such folks are seldom met with out of a farce—­lives in the next street.  He has a lovely daughter, and a nephew momentarily expected from India, and with those persons he has, of course, not the slighest acquaintance; and a niece, by marriage, of whose relationship he is also entirely unconscious.  His parlours are made with French windows; they are open, and invite the bailiff-hunted Brown into the house.  What so natural as that he should find out the state of family affairs from a loquacious Abigail, and should personate the expected nephew?  Mr. Tidmarsh (the property old gentleman of the farce-writers) is in ecstacics.  Mrs. T. sees in the supposed Selbourne a son-in-law for her daughter, whose vision is directed to the same prospects.  Happy, domestic circle! unequalled family felicity! too soon, alas! to be disturbed by a singular coincidence.  Mr. Snoxall, the victim, is in love with Miss Sophia, the daughter.  Ruin impends over Brown; but he is master of his art:  he persuades Snoxall not to undeceive the family of Tidmarsh, and kindly undertakes to pop the question to Sophia on behalf of his friend, whose sheepishness quite equals his softness.  Thus emboldened, Brown inquires after a “few loose sovereigns,” and Snoxall, having been already done out of his chairs, clothes, and watch, of course lends the victimiser his purse, which contains twenty.