“Wot a game it is!” said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. “A reg’lar prodigy son!”

“Prodigal⁠—prodigal son, Sir,” suggested Mr. Pell, mildly.

“Never mind, Sir,” said Mr. Weller, with dignity. “I know wot’s o’clock, Sir. Wen I don’t, I’ll ask you, Sir.”

By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely popular, that the congregated gentlemen determined to see him to prison in a body. So off they set; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm in arm, the officer in front, and eight stout coachmen bringing up the rear. At Serjeant’s Inn Coffeehouse the whole party halted to refresh, and, the legal arrangements being completed, the procession moved on again.