“I suppose it would, sir. You are right, sir. Exactly my own views, Mr. Boffin.” Here Wegg rose, and balancing himself on his wooden leg, fluttered over his prey with extended hand. “ Mr. Boffin, consider it done. Say no more, sir, not a word more. My stall and I are forever parted. The collection of ballads will in future be reserved for private study, with the object of making poetry tributary,”⁠—Wegg was so proud of having found this word, that he said it again, with a capital letter⁠—“Tributary, to friendship. Mr. Boffin, don’t allow yourself to be made uncomfortable by the pang it gives me to part from my stock and stall. Similar emotion was undergone by my own father when promoted for his merits from his occupation as a waterman to a situation under Government. His Christian name was Thomas. His words at the time (I was then an infant, but so deep was their impression on me, that I committed them to memory) were: