“I’ve got such a game for you, Sammy,” said the elder Mr. Weller, rising.

“Stop a minit,” said Sam, “you’re all vite behind.”

“That’s right, Sammy, rub it off,” said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted him. “It might look personal here, if a man walked about with vitevash on his clothes, eh, Sammy?”

As Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an approaching fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it.

“Keep quiet, do,” said Sam, “there never vos such a old picter-card born. Wot are you bustin’ vith, now?”