“That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,” observed Mr. John Smauker contemptuously.

“Well, if it is, it’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,” said Sam. “It may be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t say.” And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,” said Mr. John Smauker, agonised at the exceeding ungenteel sound, “will you take my arm?”