Sam bore in mind his master’s caution, and replied⁠—

“My name’s Walker; my master’s name’s Wilkins. Will you take a drop o’ somethin’ this mornin’, Mr. Trotter?”

Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal; and having deposited his book in his coat pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands and the fragrant essence of the clove.

“And what sort of a place have you got?” inquired Sam, as he filled his companion’s glass, for the second time.

“Bad,” said Job, smacking his lips, “very bad.”

“You don’t mean that?” said Sam.