My late experiences with Mr. and Mrs. Micawber suggested to me that here might be a means of keeping off the wolf for a little while. I went up the next bystreet, took off my waistcoat, rolled it neatly under my arm, and came back to the shop door.

“If you please, sir,” I said, “I am to sell this for a fair price.”

Mr. Dolloby⁠—Dolloby was the name over the shop door, at least⁠—took the waistcoat, stood his pipe on its head, against the doorpost, went into the shop, followed by me, snuffed the two candles with his fingers, spread the waistcoat on the counter, and looked at it there, held it up against the light, and looked at it there, and ultimately said:

“What do you call a price, now, for this here little weskit?”