“Never mind,” replied Sam. “P’raps you may ask for it five minits arterwards; p’raps I may say I von’t pay, and cut up rough. You von’t think o’ arrestin’ your own son for the money, and sendin’ him off to the Fleet, will you, you unnat’ral wagabone?”

At this reply of Sam’s, the father and son exchanged a complete code of telegraph nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself down on a stone step and laughed till he was purple.

“Wot a old image it is!” exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time. “What are you a-settin’ down there for, con-wertin’ your face into a street-door knocker, wen there’s so much to be done. Where’s the money?”

“In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,” replied Mr. Weller, composing his features. “Hold my hat, Sammy.”