“Not they, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. “I lodged in the same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was⁠—reg’lar clever chap, too⁠—make pies out o’ anything, he could. ‘What a number o’ cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,’ says I, when I’d got intimate with him. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘I do⁠—a good many,’ says he, ‘You must be wery fond o’ cats,’ says I. ‘Other people is,’ says he, a-winkin’ at me; ‘they ain’t in season till the winter though,’ says he. ‘Not in season!’ says I. ‘No,’ says he, ‘fruits is in, cats is out.’ ‘Why, what do you mean?’ says I. ‘Mean!’ says he. ‘That I’ll never be a party to the combination o’ the butchers, to keep up the price o’ meat,’ says he. ‘ Mr.