“Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious?”
“Looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime-basket”
“Wery sing’ler,” said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. “What’s your name, my patriarch?”
“Job.”
“And a wery good name it is—only one I know, that an’t got a nickname to it. What’s the other name?”
“Trotter,” said the stranger. “What is yours?”
Sam bore in mind his master’s caution, and replied—