“Yes,” continued Mr. Trotter, “and one of them is a cook, who has saved up a little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish herself in life, to open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, Mr. Weller. Well, sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to: a very neat little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number four collection of hymns, which I generally carry about with me, in a little book, which you may perhaps have seen in my hand—and I got a little intimate with her, Mr. Weller, and from that, an acquaintance sprung up between us, and I may venture to say, Mr. Weller, that I am to be the chandler.”
“Ah, and a wery amiable chandler you’ll make,” replied Sam, eyeing Job with a side look of intense dislike.
“The great advantage of this, Mr. Weller,” continued Job, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, “will be, that I shall be able to leave my present disgraceful service with that bad man, and to devote myself to a better and more virtuous life; more like the way in which I was brought up, Mr. Weller.”
“You must ha’ been wery nicely brought up?” said Sam.
“Oh, very, Mr. Weller, very,” replied Job. At the recollection of the purity of his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pink handkerchief, and wept copiously.
“You must ha’ been an uncommon nice boy to go to school vith,” said Sam.
“I was, sir,” replied Job, heaving a deep sigh. “I was the idol of the place.”