to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o' taste. I rayther think it isn't."
"Well," said Sam, "good bye."
"Tar, tar, Sammy," replied his father.
"I've only got to say this here," said Sam, stopping short, "that if I was the properiator o' the Markis o' Granby, and that 'ere Stiggins came and made toast in my bar, I'd—"
"What?" interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. "What?"
"—Pison his rum and water," said Sam.
"No!" said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, "would you raly, Sammy; would you, though?"
"I would," said Sam. "I wouldn't be too hard upon him at first. I'd drop him in the water-butt, and put the lid on; and if I found he was insensible to kindness, I'd try the other persvasion."
The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on his son: and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, revolving in his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had given rise.
Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road: and then set forward on his walk to London. He meditated, at first, on the probable consequences of his own advice, and the likelihood and unlikelihood of his father's adopting it. He dismissed the subject from his mind, however, with the consolatory reflection that time alone would show; and this is the reflection we would impress upon the reader.
