“No vay at all?” inquired Sam.
“No vay,” said Mr. Weller, “unless”—and a gleam of intelligence lighted up his countenance as he sunk his voice to a whisper, and applied his mouth to the ear of his offspring—“unless it is getting him out in a turn-up bedstead, unbeknown to the turnkeys, Sammy, or dressin’ him up like a old ’ooman vith a green wail.”
Sam Weller received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt, and again propounded his question.
“No,” said the old gentleman; “if he von’t let you stop there I see no vay at all. It’s no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you wot it is,” said Sam, “I’ll trouble you for the loan of five-and-twenty pound.”
“What good ’ull that do?” inquired Mr. Weller.
“Never mind,” replied Sam. “P’raps you may ask for it, five minits artervards; p’raps I may say I von’t pay, and cut up rough. You von’t think o’ arrestin’ your own son for the money, and sendin’ him off to the Fleet, will you, you unnat’ral wagabone?”
At this reply of Sam’s the father and son exchanged a complete code of telegraphic nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself down on a stone step, and laughed till he was purple.
“Wot a old image it is!” exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time. “What are you a settin’ down there for, conwertin’ your face into a street-door knocker, ven there’s so much to be done? Where’s the money?”