“Ought to ha’ know’d better!” repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table with his fist. “Ought to ha’ know’d better! why, I know a young ’un as hasn’t had half nor quarter your eddication⁠—as hasn’t slept about the markets, no, not six months⁠—who’d ha’ scorned to be let in, in such a vay; scorned it, Sammy.” In the excitement of feeling produced by this agonising reflection, Mr. Weller rang the bell, and ordered an additional pint of ale.

“Well, it’s no use talking about it now,” said Sam. “It’s over, and can’t be helped, and that’s one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts the wrong man’s head off. It’s my innings now, gov’nor, and as soon as I catches hold o’ this ’ere Trotter, I’ll have a good ’un.”