Jingle shook his head.
“Clever rascal—queer fellow, hoaxing genius—Job’s brother.”
“Job’s brother!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. “Well, now I look at him closely, there is a likeness.”
“We were always considered like each other, sir,” said Job, with a cunning look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, “only I was really of a serious nature, and he never was. He emigrated to America, sir, in consequence of being too much sought after to be comfortable; and has never been heard of since.”
“That accounts for my not having received the ‘page from the romance of real life’ which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be contemplating suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,” said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. “I need not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was natural or assumed.”
“He could assume anything, sir,” said Job. “You may consider yourself very fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he would have been even more dangerous acquaintance than—” Job looked at Jingle, hesitated, and finally added, “than—than—myself even.”
“A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,” said Perker, sealing a letter which he had just finished writing.
“Yes, sir,” replied Job. “Very much so.”
“Well,” said the little man, laughing; “I hope you are going to disgrace it. Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let me advise you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If you throw away this chance, you will both richly deserve to be hanged, as I sincerely trust you will be. And now you had better leave Mr. Pickwick and me alone, for we have other matters to talk over, and time is precious.” As Perker said this, he looked towards the door, with an evident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as possible.