“Those which combine amusement with instruction, my young friend,” replied Mr. Stiggins: “blending select tales with wood-cuts.”
“Oh, I know,” said Sam; “them as hangs up in the linen-drapers’ shops, with beggars’ petitions and all that ’ere upon ’em?”
Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent.
“And he wouldn’t be persuaded by the ladies, wouldn’t he?” said Sam.
“Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant negroes were—what did he say the infant negroes were?” said Mrs. Weller.
“Little humbugs,” replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected.
“Said the infant negroes were little humbugs,” repeated Mrs. Weller. And they both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the old gentleman.
A great many more inquiries of a similar nature might have been disclosed, only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam holding out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins suddenly recollected that he had a most pressing appointment with the shepherd, and took himself off accordingly.
The tea-things had scarcely been put away, and the hearth swept up, when the London coach deposited Mr. Weller senior at the door; his legs deposited him in the bar; and his eyes showed him his son.
“What, Sammy!” exclaimed the father.