Mr. Boffin, entering the usual chamber, laid his stick upon the settle usually reserved for him, thrust his hands into his pockets, and, with his shoulders raised and his hat drooping back upon them, looking disconsolately at Wegg. “My friend and partner, Mr. Venus, gives me to understand,” remarked that man of might, addressing him, “that you are aware of our power over you. Now, when you have took your hat off, we’ll go into that pint.”
Mr. Boffin shook it off with one shake, so that it dropped on the floor behind him, and remained in his former attitude with his former rueful look upon him.
“First of all, I’m a-going to call you Boffin, for short,” said Wegg. “If you don’t like it, it’s open to you to lump it.”
“I don’t mind it, Wegg,” Mr. Boffin replied.
“That’s lucky for you, Boffin. Now, do you want to be read to?”
“I don’t particularly care about it tonight, Wegg.”
“Because if you did want to,” pursued Mr. Wegg, the brilliancy of whose point was dimmed by his having been unexpectedly answered: “you wouldn’t be. I’ve been your slave long enough. I’m not to be trampled underfoot by a dustman any more. With the single exception of the salary, I renounce the whole and total sitiwation.”
“Since you say it is to be so, Wegg,” returned Mr. Boffin, with folded hands, “I suppose it must be.”
“ I suppose it must be,” Wegg retorted. “Next (to clear the ground before coming to business), you’ve placed in this yard a skulking, a sneaking, and a sniffing, menial.”
“He hadn’t a cold in his head when I sent him here,” said Mr. Boffin.