“I was, sir,” replied Job, heaving a deep sigh; “I was the idol of the place.”

“Ah,” said Sam, “I don’t wonder at it. What a comfort you must ha’ been to your blessed mother.”

At these words, Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief into the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep copiously.

“Wot’s the matter with the man,” said Sam, indignantly. “Chelsea waterworks is nothin’ to you. What are you melting vith now? The consciousness o’ willainy?”