Squire R. Let me try. (Pumps slowly, with long stroke.)
Mr. B. Yes, you work it, and I’ll pour in water to fetch it. (Lifts the cover a little, and pretends to pour in water from a pitcher; then seizes the handle, and works it with quick, jerking motion.) Any thing run out?
Squire R. (stooping a little). I don’t see any thing.
Mr. B. (examining the spout). Dry as a grasshopper.
(Enter Mr. Downing, a tall man, with green spectacles and wide red cravat. Has a rod in his hand, and walks with solemn air.)
Mr. D. (to Mr. B. very stiffly). Good-morning, sir. I understand you have a pump that doesn’t work well.
Mr. B. Exactly: that’s just what I’ve got.
Mr. D. (solemnly). I am a pump-doctor.
Squire R. (with a condescending smile). That is to say, I suppose that you can cure a pump, and make it well.
Mr. B. (laughing). Oh, don’t make mine well! It’s been well once.