"Friends in London!" echoed Tom.
"Ah!" said Westlock, "to be sure."
"Have you any friends in London, Ruth, my dear?" asked Tom.
"No, Tom."
"I am very happy to hear that I have," said Tom, "but it's news to me. I never knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John."
"You shall judge for yourself," returned the other. "Seriously, Tom, here is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this morning, there comes a knock at my door."
"On which you cried out, very loud, 'Come in!'" suggested Tom.
"So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young man aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited, Tom, instead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well! when he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like, sedate-looking, stranger. 'Mr. Westlock?' said he. 'That is my name,' said I. 'The favour of a few words with you?' said he. 'Pray be seated, sir,' said I."
Here John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where Tom's sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin, which by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:
"The pudding having taken a chair, Tom"—
"What!" cried Tom.
"Having taken a chair."
"You said a pudding."
"No, no," replied John, colouring rather; "a chair. The idea of a stranger coming into my rooms at half-past eight o'clock in the morning, and taking a pudding! Having taken a chair, Tom a chair—amazed me by opening the conversation thus: 'I believe you are acquainted, sir, with Mr. Thomas Pinch?'"
"No!" cried Tom.
"His very words, I assure you. I told him that I was. Did I know where you were at present residing? Yes. In London? Yes. He had casually heard, in a roundabout way, that you had left your situation with Mr. Pecksniff. Was that the fact? Yes, it was. Did you want another? Yes, you did."
"Certainly," said Tom, nodding his head.
"Just what I impressed upon him. You may rest assured that I set that point beyond the possibility of any mistake, and gave him distinctly to understand that he might make up his mind about it. Very well. 'Then,' said he, 'I think I can accommodate him.'"
Tom's sister stopped short.
"Lord bless me!" cried Tom. "Ruth, my dear, 'think I can accommodate him.'"
"Of course I begged him," pursued John Westlock, glancing at Tom's sister, who was not less eager in her interest than Tom himself, "to proceed, and said that I would undertake to see you immediately. He replied that he had very little to say, being a man of few words, but such as it was, it was to the purpose: and so, indeed, it turned out: for he immediately went on to tell me that a friend of his was in want of a
