Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed⁠—

“The worst o’ these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg’larly turns the heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, they thinks it’s all right, and don’t know no better; but they’re the wictims o’ gammon, Samivel, they’re the wictims o’ gammon.”

“I s’pose they are,” said Sam.

“Nothin’ else,” said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely; “and wot aggrawates me, Samivel, is to see ’em a-wastin’ all their time and labour in making clothes for copper-coloured people as don’t want ’em, and taking no notice of flesh-coloured Christians as do. If I’d my vay, Samivel, I’d just stick some o’ these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheelbarrow, and run ’em up and down a fourteen-inch-wide plank all day. That ’ud shake the nonsense out of ’em, if anythin’ vould.”