“In an accident.”

“Do you like it?”

“Well, I haven’t got to keep it warm,” Mr. Wegg answered desperately.

“Did you ever hear of the name of Boffin?  And do you like it?”

“Why, no,” said Mr. Wegg, growing restive; “I can’t say that I do.”

“My name’s Boffin,” said the old fellow, smiling.  “But there’s another chance for you.  Do you like the name of Nicodemus?  Think it over.  Nick or Noddy.  Noddy Boffin, that’s my name.”

“It is not, sir,” said Mr. Wegg, in a tone of resignation, “a name as I could wish anyone to call me by, but there may be persons that would not view it with the same objections.  Silas Wegg is my name.  I don’t know why Silas, and I don’t know why Wegg.”

“Now, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin, “I came by here one morning and heard you reading through your ballads to a butcher-boy.  I thought to myself, ’Here’s a literary man with a wooden leg, and all print is open to him!  And here am I without a wooden leg, and all print is shut to me.’”

“I believe you couldn’t show me the piece of English print that I wouldn’t be equal to collaring and throwing,” Mr. Wegg admitted modestly.

“Now I want some reading, and I must pay a man so much an hour to come and do it for me.  Say two hours a night at twopence-halfpenny.  Half-a-crown a week.  What do you think of the terms, Wegg?”

“Mr. Boffin, I never did ’aggle, and I never will ’aggle.  I meet you at once, free and fair, with——­Done, for double the money!”

From that night Silas Wegg came to read at Boffin’s Bower—­or Harmony Jail, as the house was formerly called—­and he soon learnt that his employer was no other than the inheritor of old Harmon’s property, and that he was known as the Golden Dustman.

It was not long after Silas Wegg’s appointment that Mr. Boffin was accosted by a strange gentleman, who gave his name as John Rokesmith, and proposed his services as private secretary.  Mr. Rokesmith mentioned that he lodged at one Mr. Wilfer’s, in Holloway.  Mr. Boffin stared.

“Father of Miss Bella Wilfer?”

“My landlord has a daughter named Bella.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t know what to say,” said Mr. Boffin; “but call at the Bower, though I don’t know that I shall ever be in want of a secretary.”

So to the Bower came Mr. John Rokesmith, but not before the Boffins had called at the Wilfers’ and seen the young lady destined by old Harmon for his son’s bride.

“Noddy,” said Mrs. Boffin, “I have been thinking early and late of that girl, Bella Wilfer, who was so cruelly disappointed both of her husband and his riches.  Don’t you think we might do something for her?  Have her to live with us?  And, Noddy, I tell you what I want—­I want society.  We have come into a great fortune, and we must act up to it.  It’s never been acted up to, and consequently no good has come of it.”