Weller,’ says the gen’l’m’n.⁠—‘Well, it is a wery bad ’un,’ says my father.⁠—‘I thought so,’ says the gen’l’m’n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg’lar good humour, and at last shoves a twenty-pound note into his hand. ‘It’s a wery bad road between this and London,’ says the gen’l’m’n.⁠—‘Here and there it is a heavy road,’ says my father.⁠—‘ ’Specially near the canal, I think,’ says the gen’l’m’n.⁠—‘Nasty bit that ’ere,’ says my father.⁠—‘Well, Mr. Weller,’ says the gen’l’m’n, ‘you’re a wery good whip, and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We’re all wery fond o’ you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you’re bringing these here woters down, and should