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.
'Wy, a man as tells what's a-goin' to happen,' replied Sam.
'I wish I'd know'd him, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'P'raps he
might ha' throw'd a small light on that 'ere liver complaint as we
wos a-speakin' on, just now. Hows'ever, if he's dead, and ain't
left the bisness to nobody, there's an end on it. Go on, Sammy,'
said Mr. Weller, with a sigh.
'Well,' said Sam, 'you've been a-prophecyin' avay about wot'll
happen to the gov'ner if he's left alone. Don't you see any way o'
takin' care on him?'
'No, I don't, Sammy,' said Mr.
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