“Leave off rattlin’ that ’ere nob o’ yourn, if you don’t want it to come off the springs altogether,” said Sam, impatiently, “and behave reasonable. I vent all the vay down to the Markis o’ Granby, arter you, last night.”
“Did you see the Marchioness o’ Granby, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller, with a sigh.
“Yes, I did,” replied Sam.
“How wos the dear creetur a lookin’?”
“Wery queer,” said Sam. “I think she’s a injurin’ herself gradivally vith too much o’ that ’ere pine-apple rum, and other strong medicines o’ the same natur.”
“You don’t mean that, Sammy?” said the senior, earnestly.
“I do, indeed,” replied the junior. Mr. Weller seized his son’s hand, clasped it, and let it fall. There was an expression on his countenance in doing so—not of dismay or apprehension, but partaking more of the sweet and gentle character of hope. A gleam of resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his face too, as he slowly said, “I ain’t quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn’t like to say I wos altogether positive, in case of any subsekent disappintment, but I rayther think, my boy, I rayther think, that the shepherd’s got the liver complaint!”
“Does he look bad?” inquired Sam.
“He’s uncommon pale,” replied his father, “’cept about the nose, which is redder than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes wunderful.”