shouldn't be quite so staggery this mornin'," replied Sam. "Are you stoppin' in this house, old 'un?"
The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.
"How was it, you worn't one of us, last night?" inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. "You seem one of the jolly sort—looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket," added Mr. Weller, in an under tone.
"I was out last night, with my master," replied the stranger.
"What's his name?" inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.
"Fitz-Marshall," said the mulberry man.
"Give us your hand," said Mr. Weller, advancing; "I should like to know you. I like you appearance, old fellow."
"Well, that is very strange," said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. "I like your's so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump."
"Did you though?"
"Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious."
"Wery sing'ler," said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. "What's your name, my patriarch?"
"Job."
"And a wery good name it is—only one I know, that ain't got a nickname to it. What's the other name?"
"Trotter," said the stranger. "What is yours!"
Sam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied.
"My name's Walker; my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o' somethin' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?"
Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal: and having deposited his book in his coat-pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands, and the fragrant essence of the clove.
