“What do I mean,” retorted Sam; “come, Sir, this is rayther too rich, as the young lady said when she remonstrated with the pastrycook, arter he’d sold her a pork pie as had got nothin’ but fat inside. What do I mean! Well, that ain’t a bad ’un, that ain’t.”

“Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, Sir,” said Mr. Winkle.