Simmery, having by this time killed all the
flies and taken all the bets, strolled away to the Stock Exchange
to see what was going forward.
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr.
Solomon Pell's instructions, and having filled up some printed
forms, requested the party to follow him to the bank, which
they did: Mr. Weller and his three friends staring at all they
beheld in unbounded astonishment, and Sam encountering
everything with a coolness which nothing could disturb.
Crossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and
passing a couple of porters who seemed dressed to match the
red fire engine which was wheeled away into a corner, they
passed into an office where their business was to be transacted,
and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them standing for a few
moments, while they went upstairs into the Will Office.
'Wot place is this here?' whispered the mottled-faced gentleman
to the elder Mr. Weller.
'Counsel's Office,' replied the executor in a whisper.
'Wot are them gen'l'men a-settin' behind the counters?' asked
the hoarse coachman.
'Reduced counsels, I s'pose,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Ain't they
the reduced counsels, Samivel?'
'Wy, you don't suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?'
inquired Sam, with some disdain.
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