_ What!
_Handy._ I rather fancy I can plough better than any man in England.
_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----
_Sir Abel._ Stop--invented by that ingenious machinist, Handy, senior.
_Handy, jun._ Gained the prize against the first husbandmen in
Hampshire--Let our Bond-street butterflies emulate the example of Handy,
junior.--
_Sir Abel._ And let old city grubs cultivate the field of science, like
Handy, senior--Ecod! I am so happy!
_Lady H.
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