‘How should I know who you wos?’ responded the son. ‘Do you s’pose I wos to tell you by the weight o’ your foot?’
‘Vell, that’s wery true, Sammy,’ replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once; ‘but wot are you a-doin’ on here? Your gov’nor can’t do no good here, Sammy. They won’t pass that werdick, they won’t pass it, Sammy.’ And Mr. Weller shook his head with legal solemnity.
‘Wot a perwerse old file it is!’ exclaimed Sam, ‘always a-goin’ on about werdicks and alleybis and that. Who said anything about the werdick?’
Mr. Weller made no reply, but once more shook his head most learnedly.
‘Leave off rattlin’ that ‘ere nob o’ yourn, if you don’t want it to come off the springs altogether,’ said Sam impatiently, ‘and behave reasonable. I vent all the vay down to the Markis o’ Granby, arter you, last night.’
‘Did you see the Marchioness o’ Granby, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller, with a sigh.
‘Yes, I did,’ replied Sam.
‘How wos the dear creetur a-lookin’?’
‘Wery queer,’ said Sam. ‘I think she’s a-injurin’ herself gradivally vith too much o’ that ‘ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines of the same natur.’
‘You don’t mean that, Sammy?’ said the senior earnestly.