There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter's eye, as he said this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller's clenched fist as he burnt with a desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely well.
"Oh, I am so glad," replied Mr. Trotter, "is he here?"
"Is your'n?" asked Sam, by way of reply.
"Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on, worse than ever."
"Ah, ah?" said Sam.
"Oh, shocking—terrible!"
"At a boarding-school?" said Sam.
"No, not at a boarding-school," replied Job Trotter, with the same sly look which Sam had noticed before; "Not at a boarding-school."
"At the house with the green gate?" said Sam, eyeing his companion closely.
"No, no—oh, not there," replied Job, with a quickness very unusual to him, "not there."
"What was you a doin' there?" asked Sam, with a sharp glance. "Got inside the gate by accident, perhaps?"
"Why, Mr. Weller," replied Job, "I don't mind telling you my little secrets, because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we first met. You recollect how pleasant we were that morning?"
"Oh yes," said Sam, impatiently. "I remember. Well."
"Well," replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone of a man who communicates an important secret; "in that house with the green gate, Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants."
"So I should think, from the look on it," interposed Sam.
"Yes," continued Mr. Trotter, "and one of them is a cook, who has saved up a little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish herself in life, to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see."
"Yes."
