Sir Abel. My dear boy, come here—Prattle! I say did you ever live next door to a pewterer's?—that's all—you understand me—did you ever hear a dozen fire-engines full gallop?—were you ever at Billingsgate in the sprat season?—or——
Handy, jun. Ha, ha!
Sir Abel. Nay, don't laugh, Bob.
Handy, jun. Indeed, sir, you think of it too seriously. The storm, I dare say, soon blows over.
Sir Abel. Soon! you know what a trade wind is, don't you, Bob? why, she thinks no more of the latter end of her speech, than she does of the latter end of her life—
Handy, jun. Ha! ha!
Sir Abel. But I won't be laugh'd at—I'll knock any man down that laughs! Bob, if you can say any thing pleasant, I'll trouble you; if not, do what my wife can't—hold your tongue.
Handy, jun. I'll shew you what I can do—I'll amuse you with this native.
[Apart.
Sir Abel. Do—do—quiz him—at him, Bob.