“Lard!” exclaimed Mr. Boffin, in a tone of great enjoyment, as he settled himself down, still nursing his stick like a baby, “it’s a pleasant place, this! And then to be shut in on each side, with these ballads, like so many book-leaf blinkers! Why, its delightful!”

“If I am not mistaken, sir,” Mr. Wegg delicately hinted, resting a hand on his stall, and bending over the discursive Boffin, “you alluded to some offer or another that was in your mind?”

“I’m coming to it! All right. I’m coming to it! I was going to say that when I listened that morning, I listened with hadmiration amounting to haw. I thought to myself, ‘Here’s a man with a wooden leg⁠—a literary man with⁠—’ ”

“N⁠—not exactly so, sir,” said Mr. Wegg.