“Of her having the pleasure,” I added.

“Of ladies’ company,” said Joe.  And drew a long breath.

“Well!” cried my sister, with a mollified glance at Mr. Pumblechook.  “She might have had the politeness to send that message at first, but it’s better late than never.  And what did she give young Rantipole here?”

“She giv’ him,” said Joe, “nothing.”

Mrs. Joe was going to break out, but Joe went on.

“What she giv’,” said Joe, “she giv’ to his friends.  ’And by his friends,’ were her explanation, ’I mean into the hands of his sister Mrs. J. Gargery.’  Them were her words; ‘Mrs. J. Gargery.’  She mayn’t have know’d,” added Joe, with an appearance of reflection, “whether it were Joe, or Jorge.”

My sister looked at Pumblechook:  who smoothed the elbows of his wooden armchair, and nodded at her and at the fire, as if he had known all about it beforehand.

“And how much have you got?” asked my sister, laughing.  Positively, laughing!

“What would present company say to ten pound?” demanded Joe.

“They’d say,” returned my sister, curtly, “pretty well.  Not too much, but pretty well.”

“It’s more than that, then,” said Joe.

That fearful Impostor, Pumblechook, immediately nodded, and said, as he rubbed the arms of his chair:  “It’s more than that, Mum.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say—­” began my sister.

“Yes I do, Mum,” said Pumblechook; “but wait a bit.  Go on, Joseph.  Good in you!  Go on!”

“What would present company say,” proceeded Joe, “to twenty pound?”

“Handsome would be the word,” returned my sister.

“Well, then,” said Joe, “It’s more than twenty pound.”

That abject hypocrite, Pumblechook, nodded again, and said, with a patronizing laugh, “It’s more than that, Mum.  Good again!  Follow her up, Joseph!”

“Then to make an end of it,” said Joe, delightedly handing the bag to my sister; “it’s five-and-twenty pound.”

“It’s five-and-twenty pound, Mum,” echoed that basest of swindlers, Pumblechook, rising to shake hands with her; “and it’s no more than your merits (as I said when my opinion was asked), and I wish you joy of the money!”

If the villain had stopped here, his case would have been sufficiently awful, but he blackened his guilt by proceeding to take me into custody, with a right of patronage that left all his former criminality far behind.

“Now you see, Joseph and wife,” said Pumblechook, as he took me by the arm above the elbow, “I am one of them that always go right through with what they’ve begun.  This boy must be bound, out of hand.  That’s my way.  Bound out of hand.”

“Goodness knows, Uncle Pumblechook,” said my sister (grasping the money), “we’re deeply beholden to you.”

“Never mind me, Mum,” returned that diabolical corn-chandler.  “A pleasure’s a pleasure, all the world over.  But this boy, you know; we must have him bound.  I said I’d see to it — to tell you the truth.”