Page:The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club.djvu/556

462 462 POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF

" Wot's a prophet ? " inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.

" Vy, a man as tells what's a goin' to happen," replied Sana.

" I wish I'd know'd him, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. '* P'raps he might ha' throw'd a small light on that 'ere liver complaint as we wos a speakin' on just now. Hows'ever, if he's dead, and ain't left the bisness to nobody, there's an end on it. Go on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, with a sigh.

" Veil," said Sam, *' you're been a prophecyin' avay about wot'll happen to the gov'nor if he's left alone. Don't you see any vay o' takin' care on him ? "

" No, I don't, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.


 * ' No vay at all ? " inquired Sam.

lighted up his countenance as he sunk his voice to a whisper, and applied his mouth to the ear of his offspring—*" unless it is getting him out in a turn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin' him up like an old 'ooman vith a green wail."
 * No vay," said Mr. Weller, *' unless" — and a gleam of intelligence

Sam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected con- tempt, and again propounded his question.

" No," said the old gentleman ; " if he von't let you stop there, I see no vay at all. Its no thoroughfare, Sammy — no thoroughfare."

" Well, then, I'll tell you wot it is," said Sam, " I'll trouble you for the loan of five-and-tventy pound."

<' Wot good 'uU that do ? " inquired Mr. Weller.

" Never mind," replied Sam. " P'raps you may ask for it five minits artervards ; p'raps I may say I von't pay, and cut up rough. You von't think o' arrestin' your own son for the money, and sendin' him off to the Fleet, will you, you unnat'ral wagabond ? "

At this reply of Sam's, the father and son exchanged a complete code of sly telegraphic nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself down on a stone step, and laughed till he was purple.

" Wot a old image it is ! " exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time. " What are you a settin* down there for, con-wertin' your face into a street-door knocker, ven there's so much to be done. Vere's the money ? "

" In the^ boot, Sammy, in the boot," replied Mr. Weller, composing his features. " Hold my hat, Sammy."

Having divested himself of this incumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body a sudden wrench to one side, and, by a dexterous twist, contrived to get his right hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great deal of panting and exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large octavo size, fastened by a huge leather strap. From thence he drew forth a couple of whip-lashes, three or four buckles, a little sample- bag of corn, and finally a small roll of very dirty bank-notes, from which he selected the required amount, which he handed over to Sam.

and the buckles, and the sample, had been all put back, and the book once more deposited at the bottom of the same pocket, " Now, Sammy, I know a gen'im'n here, as '11 do the rest o' the bisness for us, in no time
 * ' And now, Sammy," said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes,