“Silas Wegg.—I don’t,” said Mr. Wegg, bestirring himself to take the same precaution as before, “I don’t know why Silas, and I don’t know why Wegg.”
“Now, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, hugging his stick closer, “I want to make a sort of offer to you. Do you remember when you first see me?”
The wooden Wegg looked at him with a meditative eye, and also with a softened air as descrying possibility of profit. “Let me think. I ain’t quite sure, and yet I generally take a powerful sight of notice, too. Was it on a Monday morning, when the butcher-boy had been to our house for orders, and bought a ballad of me, which, being unacquainted with the tune, I run it over to him?”
“Right, Wegg, right! But he bought more than one.”
“Yes, to be sure, sir; he bought several; and wishing to lay out his money to