"Come below," answered the Resurrection Man.
The person thus invited was the foreman in Mr. Mossop's employment. He was short, stout, and strongly built, with a tremendous rubicundity of visage, small piercing grey eyes, no whiskers, and a very apoplectic neck. His age might be about fifty; and he was dressed in a light garb befitting the nature of his calling.
"Well, Mr. Swot," said the Resurrection Man, as the little fat foreman descended the ladder; "this is really an unusual thing to have the honour of your company. Sit down; and you, Moll, put the lush and the pipes upon the table."
"That's right, Captain," returned Mr. Swot, as he seated himself. "I came on purpose to drink a social glass and have a chat with you. In fact, my present visit is not altogether without an object."
"I'm glad of that," said the Resurrection Man. "We want something to do. It was only just now that I and my mate were complaining how slack business was."
"You know that Mossop never has any thing to do with any schemes in which chaps of your business choose to embark," continued Mr. Swot: "he receives your goods, and either keeps them in warehouse or carts them for you as you like; but he never knows where they come from."
"Perfectly true," observed the Resurrection Man.
"But all that's no reason why I should be equally partickler," proceeded Swot.
"Of course not," said the Resurrection Man.
"Well, then—we are all friends here?" asked Swot, glancing around him.