"And what sort of a place have you got?" inquired Sam, as he filled his companion's glass, for the second time.
"Bad," said Job, smacking his lips, "very bad."
"You don't mean that?" said Sam.
"I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be married."
"No."
"Yes; and worse than that, too, he's going to run away with an immense rich heiress, from boarding-school."
"What a dragon!" said Sam, refilling his companion's glass. "It's some boarding-school in this town, I suppose, a'nt it?"
Now, although this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures, that he perceived his new friend's anxiety to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and finally made a motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary pump-handle: thereby intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as undergoing the process of being pumped, by Mr. Samuel Weller.
"No, no," said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, "that's not be told to everybody. That is a secret—a great secret, Mr. Walker."
As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, as a means of reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his thirst. Sam observed the hint; and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulberry man glistened.
"And so it's a secret?" said Sam.
"I should rather suspect it was," said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor, with a complacent face.
"I suppose your mas'r 's wery rich?" said Sam.
Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four distinct slaps on the pocket of his mulberry
