Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller's mind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very shortly recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in which he was only wont to indulge when particularly pleased.
"Vell, said Sam, "about my affair. Just open them ears o' yourn, and don't say nothin' till I've done." With this brief preface, Sam related, as succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had with Mr. Pickwick.
"Stop there by himself, poor creetur!" exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller, "without nobody to take his part! It can't be done, Samivel, it can't be done."
"O' course it can't," asserted Sam: "I know'd that, afore I came."
"Wy, they'll eat him up alive, Sammy," exclaimed Mr. Weller.
Sam nodded his concurrence in the opinion.
"He goes in rayther raw, Sammy," said Mr. Weller metaphorically, "and he'll come out, done so ex-ceedin' brown, that his most familiar friends won't know him. Roast pigeon's nothin' to it, Sammy."
Again Sam Weller nodded.
"It oughtn't to be, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, gravely.
"It mustn't be," said Sam.
"Cert'nly not," said Mr. Weller.
"Vell now," said Sam, "you've been a prophecyin' away, wery fine, like a red-faced Nixon as the sixpenny books gives picters on."
"Who wos he, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.
"Never mind who he was," retorted Sam; "he warn't a coachman; that's enough for you."
"I know'd a ostler o' that name," said Mr. Weller, musing.
"It warn't him," said Sam. "This here gen'l'm'n was a prophet."
"Wot's a prophet?" inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly on his son.
