"Touts for licences!" said thegenfleman.
"Touts for licences," replied Sam. 'Two coves in white aprons Touches
their hats ven you walk in—'Licence, sir, licence?' Queer sort, them, and their
mas'rs too, sir—Old Bailey Proctors—and no mistake."
"What do they do?" inquired the gentleman.
"Do! You, sir! That an't the wost on it, neither. They put things into old
gen'lm's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, sir, vos a coachman. A
widower he vos, and fat enough for anything—uncommon fat, to be sure.
His misses dies and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the
Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt—'werysmart—top boots on-
-nosegay in his button-hole—broad-brimmed tile—green shawl—quite the
gen'lm'n. Goes through the archway, thinking how he should inwest he
money—up comes the touter, touches his hat—'Licence, sir, licence?'—
'What's that?' says my father.—' "Licence, sir,' says he.— 'What licence?' says
my father.—'Marriage licence,' says the touter,—' Dash my veskit,' says my
father, 'I never thought o'that,'1 think you wants one,sir," says the touter. My
father pulls up, and thinks a bit—'No,' says he, 'damme, I'm too old, b'sides
I'm a many sizes too large,' says he.—'Not a bit on it, sir,' says the touter,—
'Think not?' says my father.—'I'm sure not,' says he; 'we married a gen'lm'n
twice your size, last Monday.'—'Did you,though,' said my father,-'To be sure
we did,' says the touter,, 'you're a babby to him—this vay,sir—this vay!'—and
sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a
horgan, into a little back office, vere a feller sat among dirty papers and tin
boxes, making believe he was busy. 'Pray take a seat, vile I makes out the
affidavit, sir,' says the lawyer.—"Thankee, sir,' says my father, and down he
sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at the names on
the boxes. 'What's your name, sir?' says the lawyer—'Tony Weller,' says my
father.—'Parish?' says the laqyer.—'Belle Savage,' says my father; for he
stopped there wen he drove up, and he know'd nothing about parishes, he
didn't.—'And what's the lady's name?' says the lawyer. My fatherwas struck
all of a heap. 'Blessed if I know,' says he.—'Not know!' says the lawyer.—'no
more nor you do,' says my father, 'can't I put that in afterwards?'—
'Impossible!' says the lawyer.—'Wery well,' says my father, after he'd thought
a moment, 'put down Mrs. Clarke.'—'What Clarke?' says the iawyer, dipping
his pen in the ink.—'Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby, Dorking,' says my father;
she'll have me, if I ask, I des-say—I never said nothing to her, but she" have
me, I know. The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what's
more she's got him now; and I never had any of the four hundred pound,
worse luck. "Beg your pardon, sir," said Sam,when he had concluded, "but
wen I gets on this here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow vith the vheel
greased." Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see
whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room.
Mr.Jingle, want die was de toegesprokene, legt het handiger aan:
we will not, therefore, pursue the thread of Mr.Jingle's meditations, as he
wended his way to Doctors' Commons. It will be sufficient for our purposes to
relate, that escaping the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard
the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the Vicar General's
office in safety, and having procured a highly flattering adress on
