e man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to
his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam,
by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod--

'How are you, governor?'

'I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,' said the man, speaking with
great deliberation, and closing the book. 'I hope you are the same,
Sir?'

'Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn't be quite
so staggery this mornin',' replied Sam. 'Are you stoppin' in this house,
old 'un?'

The mulberry man replied in the affirmative.

'How was it you worn't one of us, last night?' inquired Sam, scrubbing
his face with the towel. 'You seem one of the jolly sort--looks as
conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,' added Mr. Weller, in an
undertone.

'I was out last night with my master,' replied the stranger.

'What's his name?' inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with
sudden excitement, and the friction of the towel combined.

'Fitz-Marshall,' said the mulberry man.

'Give us your hand,' said Mr. Weller, advancing; 'I should like to know
you. I like your appearance, old fellow.'

'Well, that is very strange,' said the mulberry man, with great
simplicity of manner. 'I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak
to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.' 'Did you
though?'

'Upon my word. Now, isn't that curious?'

'Wery sing'ler,' said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the
softness of the stranger. 'What's your name, my patriarch?'

'Job.'

'And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain't got a nickname
to it. What's the other name?'

'Trotter,' said the stranger. 'What is yours?'

Sam bore in mind his master's caution, and replied--

'My name's Walker; my master's name's Wilkins. Will you take a drop o'
somethin' this mornin', Mr. Trotter?'

Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited
his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where
they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed
by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British
Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove.

'And what sort of a place have you got?' inquired Sam, as he filled his
companion's glass, for the second time.

'Bad,' said Job, smacking his lips, 'very bad.'

'You don't mean that?' said Sam.

'I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master's going to be marri