“Vell now,” said Sam, “you’ve been a prophesyin’ away, wery fine, like a red-faced Nixon as the sixpenny books gives picters on.”
“Who wos he, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller.
“Never mind who he was,” retorted Sam; “he warn’t a coachman; that’s enough for you.”
“I know’d a ostler o’ that name,” said Mr. Weller, musing.
“It warn’t him,” said Sam. “This here gen’l’m’n was a prophet.”
“Wot’s a prophet?” inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.
“Wy, a man as tells what’s a goin’ to happen,” replied Sam.
“I wish I’d know’d him, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “P’raps he might ha’ throw’d a small light on that ’ere liver complaint as we wos a speakin’ on, just now. Hows’ever, if he’s dead, and ain’t left the bisness to nobody, there’s an end on it. Go on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, with a sigh.
“Well,” said Sam, “you’ve been a prophesyin’ avay, about wot’ll happen to the gov’nor if he’s left alone. Don’t you see any vay o’ takin’ care on him?”
“No, I don’t, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage.