Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four distinct slaps on the pockets of his mulberry indescribables with his right, as if to intimate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much by the chinking of coin.

“Ah,” said Sam, “that’s the game, is it?”

The mulberry man nodded significantly.

“Well, and don’t you think, old feller,” remonstrated Mr. Weller, “that if you let your master take in this here young lady, you’re a precious rascal?”

“I know that,” said Job Trotter, turning upon his companion a countenance of deep contrition, and groaning slightly, “I know that, and that’s what it is that preys upon my mind. But what am I to do?”

“Do!” said Sam; “di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.”