“Better, sir. I think I am better,” responded Job.
“O’ course you air,” said Sam, argumentatively. “It’s like puttin’ gas in a balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the operation. Wot do you say to another o’ the same di-mensions?”
“I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, sir,” replied Job, “much rather not.”
“Vell then, wot do you say to some wittles?” inquired Sam.
“Thanks to your worthy governor, sir,” said Mr. Trotter, “we have half a leg of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under it to save boiling.”
“Wot! Has he been a purwidin’ for you?” asked Sam emphatically.
“He has, sir,” replied Job. “More than that, Mr. Weller; my master being very ill, he got us a room—we were in a kennel before—and paid for it, sir; and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr. Weller,” said Job, with real tears in his eyes for once, “I could serve that gentleman till I fell down dead at his feet.”
“I say!” said Sam, “I’ll trouble you, my friend! None o’ that!”
Job Trotter looked amazed.
“None o’ that, I say, young feller,” repeated Sam firmly. “No man serves him but me. And now we’re upon it, I’ll let you into another secret besides that,” said Sam, as he paid for the beer. “I never heerd, mind you, nor read of it in story-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters—not even in spectacles, as I remember, though that may ha’ been done for anythin’ I know to the contrairey—but mark my vords, Job Trotter, he’s a reg’lar thorough-bred angel for all that; and let me see the man as wenturs to tell me he knows a better vun.” With this defiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side pocket, and, with many confirmatory nods and gestures by the way, proceeded in search of the subject of discourse.