‘My dear sir!’ cried Pecksniff, ‘I shall be delighted. Merry, my child, the lantern.’
‘The lantern, if you please, my dear,’ said Martin; ‘but I couldn’t think of taking your father out of doors to-night; and, to be brief, I won’t.’
Mr Pecksniff already had his hat in his hand, but it was so emphatically said that he paused.
‘I take Mr Pinch, or go alone,’ said Martin. ‘Which shall it be?’
‘It shall be Thomas, sir,’ cried Pecksniff, ‘since you are so resolute upon it. Thomas, my friend, be very careful, if you please.’
Tom was in some need of this injunction, for he felt so nervous, and trembled to such a degree, that he found it difficult to hold the lantern. How much more difficult when, at the old man’s bidding she drew her hand through his—Tom Pinch’s—arm!
‘And so, Mr Pinch,’ said Martin, on the way, ‘you are very comfortably situated here; are you?’
Tom answered, with even more than his usual enthusiasm, that he was under obligations to Mr Pecksniff which the devotion of a lifetime would but imperfectly repay.
‘How long have you known my nephew?’ asked Martin.
‘Your nephew, sir?’ faltered Tom.