“Very, very, Sir,” replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face. “But shake hands, Mr. Weller.”

Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a sudden impulse, complied with his request.

“How,” said Job Trotter, as they walked away, “how is your dear, good master? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller! I hope he didn’t catch cold, that dreadful night, Sir.”

There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter’s eye, as he said this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller’s clenched fist, as he burned with a desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, and replied that his master was extremely well.