“Here you are again,” repeated Mr. Wegg, musing. “And what are you now? Are you in the Funns, or where are you? Have you lately come to settle in this neighbourhood, or do you own to another neighbourhood? Are you in independent circumstances, or is it wasting the motions of a bow on you? Come! I’ll speculate! I’ll invest a bow in you.”

Which Mr. Wegg, having replaced his tin box, accordingly did, as he rose to bait his gingerbread-trap for some other devoted infant. The salute was acknowledged with:

“Morning, sir! Morning! Morning!”

(“Calls me Sir!” said Mr. Wegg, to himself. “ He won’t answer. A bow gone!”)

“Morning, morning, morning!”