Mr. Boffin, a broad, round-shouldered, one-sided old fellow in mourning, dressed in a pea overcoat, and wearing thick leather gaiters, and gloves like a hedger's, came ambling towards the street corner where Silas Wegg sat at his stall. A few small lots of fruits and sweets, and a choice collection of halfpenny ballads, comprised Mr. Wegg's stock, and assuredly it was the hardest little stall of all the sterile little stalls in London.
"Morning, morning!" said the old fellow.
"Good-morning to you, sir!" said Mr. Wegg.
The old fellow paused, and then startled Mr. Wegg with the question, "How did you get your wooden leg?"
"In an accident."
"Do you like it?"
"Well, I haven't got to keep it warm," Mr. Wegg answered desperately.
"Did you ever hear of the name of Boffin? And do you like it?"
"Why, no," said Mr. Wegg, growing restive; "I can't say that I do."
"My name's Boffin," said the old fellow, smiling. "But there's another chance for you. Do you like the name of Nicodemus? Think it over. Nick or Noddy. Noddy Boffin, that's my name."