“There’s a friend of mine, sir, that had the intention of spending the evening with me when I gave you up—much against my will—for the night.”
“Call him out,” cried Mr. Boffin in a bustle; “get him to bear a hand. Don’t drop that one under your arm. It’s Dancer. Him and his sister made pies of a dead sheep they found when they were out a walking. Where’s your friend? Oh, here’s your friend. Would you be so good as help Wegg and myself with these books? But don’t take Jemmy Taylor of Southwark, nor yet Jemmy Wood of Gloucester. These are the two Jemmys. I’ll carry them myself.”
Not ceasing to talk and bustle, in a state of great excitement, Mr. Boffin directed the removal and arrangement of the books, appearing to be in some sort beside himself until they were all deposited on the floor, and the cab was dismissed.
“There!” said Mr. Boffin, gloating over them. “There they are, like the four-and-twenty fiddlers—all of a row. Get on your spectacles, Wegg; I know where to find the best of ’em, and we’ll have a taste at once of what we have got before us. What’s your friend’s name?”
Mr. Wegg presented his friend as Mr. Venus.
“Eh?” cried Mr. Boffin, catching at the name. “Of Clerkenwell?”
“Of Clerkenwell, sir,” said Mr. Venus.
“Why, I’ve heard of you,” cried Mr. Boffin, “I heard of you in the old man’s time. You knew him. Did you ever buy anything of him?” With piercing eagerness.
“No, sir,” returned Venus.
“But he showed you things; didn’t he?”