“Give us your hand,” said Mr. Weller, advancing; “I should like to know you. I like your appearance, old fellow.”

“Well, that is very strange,” said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of manner. “I like yours so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very first moment I saw you under the pump.”

“Did you though?”

“Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious?”

“Wery sing’ler,” said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness of the stranger. “What’s your name, my patriarch?”

“Job.”

“And a wery good name it is; only one I know that ain’t got a nickname to it. What’s the other name?”

“Trotter,” said the stranger. “What is yours?”