"Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant negroes were—what did he say the infant negroes were?" said Mrs. Weller.
"Little humbugs," replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected.
"Said the infant negroes were little humbugs," repeated Mrs. Weller. And they both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the old gentleman.
A great many more iniquities of a similar nature might have been disclosed, only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam holding out no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins suddenly recollected that he had a most pressing appointment with the shepherd, and took himself off accordingly.
The tea-things had been scarcely put away, and the hearth swept up, when the London coach deposited Mr. Weller senior at the door; his legs deposited him in the bar; and his eyes showed him his son.
"What, Sammy!" exclaimed the father.
"What, old Nobs!" ejaculated the son. And they shook hands heartily.
"Werry glad to see you, Sammy," said the elder Mr. Weller, "though how you've managed to get over your mother-in-law, is a mystery to me. I only vish you'd write me out the receipt, that's all."
"Hush!" said Sam, "she's at home, old feller."
"She ain't vithin hearin'," replied Mr. Weller; "she always goes and blows up, down stairs, for a couple of hours arter not tea; so we'll just give ourselves a damp, Sammy."
Saying this, Mr. Weller mixed two glasses of spirits and water, and produced a couple of pipes. The father and son sitting down opposite each other: Sam on one side of the fire, in the high-backed chair, and Mr. Weller senior on the other, in an easy ditto: they proceeded to enjoy themselves with all due gravity.
"Anybody been here, Sammy?" asked Mr. Weller senior, drily, after a long silence.
