Crossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and passing a couple of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which was wheeled away into a corner, they passed into an office where their business was to be transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them standing for a few moments, while they went upstairs into the Will Office.
‘Wot place is this here?’ whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the elder Mr. Weller.
‘Counsel’s Office,’ replied the executor in a whisper.
‘Wot are them gen’l’men a-settin’ behind the counters?’ asked the hoarse coachman.
‘Reduced counsels, I s’pose,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Ain’t they the reduced counsels, Samivel?’
‘Wy, you don’t suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?’ inquired Sam, with some disdain.
‘How should I know?’ retorted Mr. Weller; ‘I thought they looked wery like it. Wot are they, then?’
‘Clerks,’ replied Sam.
‘Wot are they all a-eatin’ ham sangwidges for?’ inquired his father.
‘’Cos it’s in their dooty, I suppose,’ replied Sam, ‘it’s a part o’ the system; they’re alvays a-doin’ it here, all day long!’