“Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,” rejoined the boy. “He told me yesterday mornin’ to come to the George and Wultur this arternoon, and ask for Sam.”

“It’s my father, my dear,” said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory air to the young lady in the bar; “blessed if I think he hardly knows wot my other name is. Well, young brockiley sprout, wot then?”

“Why then,” said the boy, “you was to come to him at six o’clock to our ’ouse, ’cos he wants to see you⁠—Blue Boar, Leaden’all Markit. Shall I say you’re comin’?”

“You may wenture on that ’ere statement, Sir,” replied Sam. And thus empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct imitations of a drover’s whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar richness and volume.