Mr. Chadband, however, having concluded for the present, sits down at Mr. Snagsby’s table and lays about him prodigiously.  The conversion of nutriment of any sort into oil of the quality already mentioned appears to be a process so inseparable from the constitution of this exemplary vessel that in beginning to eat and drink, he may be described as always becoming a kind of considerable oil mills or other large factory for the production of that article on a wholesale scale.  On the present evening of the long vacation, in Cook’s Court, Cursitor Street, he does such a powerful stroke of business that the warehouse appears to be quite full when the works cease.

At this period of the entertainment, Guster, who has never recovered her first failure, but has neglected no possible or impossible means of bringing the establishment and herself into contempt—­among which may be briefly enumerated her unexpectedly performing clashing military music on Mr. Chadband’s head with plates, and afterwards crowning that gentleman with muffins—­at which period of the entertainment, Guster whispers Mr. Snagsby that he is wanted.

“And being wanted in the—­not to put too fine a point upon it—­in the shop,” says Mr. Snagsby, rising, “perhaps this good company will excuse me for half a minute.”

Mr. Snagsby descends and finds the two ’prentices intently contemplating a police constable, who holds a ragged boy by the arm.

“Why, bless my heart,” says Mr. Snagsby, “what’s the matter!”

“This boy,” says the constable, “although he’s repeatedly told to, won’t move on—­”

“I’m always a-moving on, sar,” cries the boy, wiping away his grimy tears with his arm.  “I’ve always been a-moving and a-moving on, ever since I was born.  Where can I possibly move to, sir, more nor I do move!”

“He won’t move on,” says the constable calmly, with a slight professional hitch of his neck involving its better settlement in his stiff stock, “although he has been repeatedly cautioned, and therefore I am obliged to take him into custody.  He’s as obstinate a young gonoph as I know.  He won’t move on.”

“Oh, my eye!  Where can I move to!” cries the boy, clutching quite desperately at his hair and beating his bare feet upon the floor of Mr. Snagsby’s passage.

“Don’t you come none of that or I shall make blessed short work of you!” says the constable, giving him a passionless shake.  “My instructions are that you are to move on.  I have told you so five hundred times.”

“But where?” cries the boy.

“Well!  Really, constable, you know,” says Mr. Snagsby wistfully, and coughing behind his hand his cough of great perplexity and doubt, “really, that does seem a question.  Where, you know?”

“My instructions don’t go to that,” replies the constable.  “My instructions are that this boy is to move on.”