“I see you were not,” said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm playing about his mouth; “or you would have known my name. You don’t know it. I would recommend you not to ask for it.”
“I meant no harm, young man,” observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.
“And have done none,” said the stranger.
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue: which was again broken by the stranger.
“I have seen you before, I think?” said he. “You were differently dressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you again. You were beadle here, once; were you not?”
“I was,” said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; “porochial beadle.”
“Just so,” rejoined the other, nodding his head. “It was in that character I saw you. What are you now?”
“Master of the workhouse,” rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. “Master of the workhouse, young man!”
“You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt not?” resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble’s eyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question. “Don’t scruple to answer freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see.”
“I suppose, a married man,” replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, “is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner.”