Sir Abel. You don't say so! What a clever fellow he is! I say, Bob, if you would—
Handy, jun. No! I can't condescend.
Sir Abel. Condescend! why not?—much more creditable, let me tell you, than gallopping a maggot for a thousand, or eating a live cat, or any other fashionable achievement.
Handy, jun. So it is—Egad! I will—I'll carry off the prize of industry.
Sir Abel. But should you lose, Bob.
Handy, jun. I lose! that's vastly well!
Sir Abel. True, with my curricle plough you could hardly fail.
Handy, jun. With my superior skill, Dad—Then, I say, how the newspapers will teem with the account.
Sir Abel. Yes.
Handy, jun. That universal genius, Handy, junior, with a plough——