Sir Simon. Damn me, my dear Tom, if he isn't a brazier!
Shuff. The devil!
Sir Simon. A dealer in kitchen candlesticks, coal skuttles, coppers, and cauldrons.
Shuff. And is the girl pretty?
Sir Simon. So they tell me;—a plump little devil, as round as a tea kettle.
Shuff. I'll be after the brazier's daughter, to-morrow.
Sir Simon. But you have weight with him. Talk to him, my dear Tom—reason with him; try your power, Tom, do!
Shuff. I don't much like plotting with the father against the son—that's reversing the New School, Baronet.
Sir Simon. But it will serve Frank: it will serve me, who wish to serve you. And to prove that I do wish it, I have been keeping something in embryo for you, my dear Tom Shuffleton, against your arrival.
Shuff. For me?