“Wot place is this here?” whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the elder Mr. Weller.
“Counsel’s Office,” replied the executor in a whisper.
“Wot are them gen’l’men a settin’ behind the counters?” asked the hoarse coachman.
“Reduced counsels, I s’pose,” replied Mr. Weller. “Ain’t they the reduced counsels, Samivel?”
“Vy, you don’t suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?” inquired Sam, with some disdain.
“How should I know?” retorted Mr. Weller; “I thought they looked wery like it. Wot are they, then?”
“Clerks,” replied Sam.
“Wot are they all a eatin’ ham sangwidges for?” inquired his father.
“’Cos it’s their dooty, I suppose,” replied Sam, “it’s a part o’ the system; they’re always a doin’ it here, all day long!”