“Wery good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,” returned Mr. Weller; “I call it a dispensary, and it’s alvays writ up so, at the places vere they gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles; that’s all.”
With these words Mr. Weller re-filled and re-lighted his pipe, and once more summing up a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows:
“Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o’ stoppin’ here to be married vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not wish to separate myself from them interestin’ members o’ society altogether, I have come to the determination o’ drivin the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more at the Bell Savage, vich is my nat’ral-born element, Sammy.”
“And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness?” inquired Sam.
“The bis’ness, Samivel,” replied the old gentleman, “good-vill, stock, and fixters, vill be sold by private contract; and out o’ the money, two hundred pound, agreeable to rekvest o’ your mother-in-law’s to me a little afore she died, vill be inwested in your name in—wot do you call them things agin?”
“Wot things?” inquired Sam.
“Them things as is alvays a goin’ up and down, in the City.”
“Omnibuses?” suggested Sam.
“Nonsense,” replied Mr. Weller. “Them things as is alvays a fluctooatin’, and gettin’ theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national debt, and the checquers bills, and all that.”
“Oh! the funds,” said Sam.