“All good be with it!” exclaimed Bintrey, rising.  “May it prosper!  Is Joey Ladle to take a share in Handel, Mozart, Haydn, Kent, Purcell, Doctor Arne, Greene, and Mendelssohn?

“I hope so.”

“I wish them all well out of it,” returned Bintrey, with much heartiness.  “Good-bye, sir.”

They shook hands and parted.  Then (first knocking with his knuckles for leave) entered to Mr. Wilding from a door of communication between his private counting-house and that in which his clerks sat, the Head Cellarman of the cellars of Wilding and Co., Wine Merchants, and erst Head Cellarman of the cellars of Pebbleson Nephew.  The Joey Ladle in question.  A slow and ponderous man, of the drayman order of human architecture, dressed in a corrugated suit and bibbed apron, apparently a composite of door-mat and rhinoceros-hide.

“Respecting this same boarding and lodging, Young Master Wilding,” said he.

“Yes, Joey?”

“Speaking for myself, Young Master Wilding—­and I never did speak and I never do speak for no one else—­I don’t want no boarding nor yet no lodging.  But if you wish to board me and to lodge me, take me.  I can peck as well as most men.  Where I peck ain’t so high a object with me as What I peck.  Nor even so high a object with me as How Much I peck.  Is all to live in the house, Young Master Wilding?  The two other cellarmen, the three porters, the two ’prentices, and the odd men?”

“Yes.  I hope we shall all be an united family, Joey.”

“Ah!” said Joey.  “I hope they may be.”

“They?  Rather say we, Joey.”

Joey Ladle shook his held.  “Don’t look to me to make we on it, Young Master Wilding, not at my time of life and under the circumstances which has formed my disposition.  I have said to Pebbleson Nephew many a time, when they have said to me, ’Put a livelier face upon it, Joey’—­I have said to them, ’Gentlemen, it is all wery well for you that has been accustomed to take your wine into your systems by the conwivial channel of your throttles, to put a lively face upon it; but,’ I says, ’I have been accustomed to take my wine in at the pores of the skin, and, took that way, it acts different.  It acts depressing.  It’s one thing, gentlemen,’ I says to Pebbleson Nephew, ’to charge your glasses in a dining-room with a Hip Hurrah and a Jolly Companions Every One, and it’s another thing to be charged yourself, through the pores, in a low dark cellar and a mouldy atmosphere.  It makes all the difference betwixt bubbles and wapours,’ I tells Pebbleson Nephew.  And so it do.  I’ve been a cellarman my life through, with my mind fully given to the business.  What’s the consequence?  I’m as muddled a man as lives—­you won’t find a muddleder man than me—­nor yet you won’t find my equal in molloncolly.  Sing of Filling the bumper fair, Every drop you sprinkle, O’er the brow of care, Smooths away a wrinkle?  Yes.  P’raps so.  But try filling yourself through the pores, underground, when you don’t want to it!”