_Sir Abel._ Not very, I believe--Well said surveyor! "A cool summer house." _Ash._ Ees, zur, quite cool--by reason the roof be tumbled in. _Sir Abel._ Better and better--"the whole capable of the greatest improvement."--Come, that seems true however--I shall have plenty to do, that's one comfort--I have such contrivances! I'll have a canal run through my kitchen.--I must give this rustic some idea of my consequence. [_Aside._] You must know, Farmer, you have the honour of conversing with a man, who has obtained patents for tweezers, tooth-picks, and tinder boxes--to a philosopher, who has been consulted on the Wapping docks and the Gravesend tunnel; and who has now in hand two inventions which will render him immortal--the one is, converting saw dust into deal boards, and the other is, a plan of cleaning rooms by a steam engine--and, Farmer, I mean to give prizes for industry--I'll have a ploughing match. _Ash._ Will you, zur? _Sir Abel._ Yes; for I consider a healthy young man, between the handles of a plough, as one of the noblest illustrations of the prosperity of Britain. _Ash._ Faith and troth! there be some tightish hands in theas parts, I promize ye. _Sir Abel._ And, Farmer, it shall precede the hymeneal festivities-- _Ash._ Nan! _Sir Abel._ Blockhead! The ploughing match shall take place as soon as Sir Philip Blandford and his daughter arrive. _Ash._ Oh, likely, likely. _Enter_ SERVANT. _Serv._ Sir Abel, I beg to say, my master will be here immediately. _Sir Abel._ And, sir, I beg to ask who possesses the happiness of being your master? _Serv._ Your son, sir, Mr. Robert Handy. _Sir Abel._ Indeed! and where is Bob? _Serv._ I left him, sir, in the belfrey of the church. _Sir Abel._ Where? _Serv._ In the belfrey of the church. _Sir Abel._ In the belfrey of the church! What was he doing there? _Serv._ Why, Sir, the _natives_ were ringing a peal in honour of our arrival--when my master finding they knew nothing of the matter, went up to the steeple to instruct them, and ordered me to proceed to the Castle--Give me leave, Sir Abel, to take this out of your way. [_Takes the camp chair._] Sir, I have the honour-- [_Bows and Exit._ _Sir Abel._ Wonderful! My Bob, you must know, is an astonishing fellow!--you have heard of the _admirable Crichton_, may be? Bob's of the same kidney! I contrive, he executes--Sir Abel _invenit_, Bob _fecit_. He can do everything--everything! _Ash._ All the better vor he. I zay, zur, as he can turn his head to everything, pray, in what way med he earn his livelihood? _Sir Abel._ Earn his livelihood! _Ash._ Ees, zur;--How do he gain his bread! _Sir Abel._ Bread! Oh, he can't earn his bread, bless you! he's a genius. _Ash._ Genius! Drabbit it, I have got a horze o' thic name, but dom' un, he'll never work--never. _Sir Abel._ Egad; here comes my boy Bob!--Eh! no--it is not! no. _Enter_ POSTBOY, _with a round hat and cane._ Why, who the devil are you?