‘He goes in rayther raw, Sammy,’ said Mr. Weller metaphorically, ‘and he’ll come out, done so ex-ceedin’ brown, that his most formiliar friends won’t know him. Roast pigeon’s nothin’ to it, Sammy.’
Again Sam Weller nodded.
‘It oughtn’t to be, Samivel,’ said Mr. Weller gravely.
‘It mustn’t be,’ said Sam.
‘Cert’nly not,’ said Mr. Weller.
‘Vell now,’ said Sam, ‘you’ve been a-prophecyin’ away, wery fine, like a red-faced Nixon, as the sixpenny books gives picters on.’
‘Who wos he, Sammy?’ inquired Mr. Weller.
‘Never mind who he was,’ retorted Sam; ‘he warn’t a coachman; that’s enough for you.’
I know’d a ostler o’ that name,’ said Mr. Weller, musing.
‘It warn’t him,’ said Sam. ‘This here gen’l’m’n was a prophet.’