“Bless you, Mr. Walker—Weller I mean—a great many things, if you will come away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I have looked for you, Mr. Weller——”
“Wery hard, indeed, I s’pose?” said Sam, dryly.
“Very, very, sir,” replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face. “But shake hands, Mr. Weller.”
Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a sudden impulse, complied with his request.
“How,” said Job Trotter, as they walked away, “how is your dear, good master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn’t catch cold, that dreadful night, sir?”
There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter’s eye as he said this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller’s clenched fist as he burnt with a desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely well.
“Oh, I am so glad,” replied Mr. Trotter. “Is he here?”
“Is your’n?” asked Sam, by way of reply.
“Oh yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on worse than ever.”
“Ah, ah?” said Sam.