“Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.

“And not a wery sure one, neither,” added Mr. Weller; “I got reg’larly done the other day.”

“No!” said his father.

“I did,” said the son; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words as possible, how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter.

Mr. Weller, senior, listened to the tale with the most profound attention, and, at its termination, said⁠—

“Worn’t one o’ these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift o’ the gab wery gallopin’?”