“Are you a judge of china?”

Mr. Venus again shook his head.

“Because if he had ever showed you a teapot, I should be glad to know of it,” said Mr. Boffin. And then, with his right hand at his lips, repeated thoughtfully, “a Teapot, a Teapot,” and glanced over the books on the floor, as if he knew there was something interesting connected with a teapot, somewhere among them.

Mr. Wegg and Mr. Venus looked at one another wonderingly: and Mr. Wegg, in fitting on his spectacles, opened his eyes wide, over their rims, and tapped the side of his nose: as an admonition to Venus to keep himself generally wide awake.

“A Teapot,” repeated Mr. Boffin, continuing to muse and survey the books; “a Teapot, a Teapot. Are you ready, Wegg?”

“I am at your service, sir,” replied that gentleman, taking his usual seat on the usual settle, and poking his wooden leg under the table before it. “Mr. Venus, would you make yourself useful, and take a seat beside me, sir, for the conveniency of snuffing the candles?”

Venus complying with the invitation while it was yet being given, Silas pegged at him with his wooden leg, to call his particular attention to Mr. Boffin standing musing before the fire, in the space between the two settles.

“Hem! Ahem!” coughed Mr. Wegg to attract his employer’s attention. “Would you wish to commence with an Animal, sir — from the Register?”

“No,” said Mr. Boffin, “no, Wegg.” With that, producing a little book from his breast-pocket, he handed it with great care to the literary gentlemen, and inquired, “What do you call that, Wegg?”

“This, sir,” replied Silas, adjusting his spectacles, and referring to the title-page, “is Merryweather’s Lives and Anecdotes of Misers. Mr. Venus, would you make yourself useful and draw the candles a little nearer, sir?” This to have a special opportunity of bestowing a stare upon his comrade.

“Which of ’em have you got in that lot?” asked Mr. Boffin. “Can you find out pretty easy?”

“Well, sir,” replied Silas, turning to the table of contents and slowly fluttering the leaves of the book, “I should say they must be pretty well all here, sir; here’s a large assortment, sir; my eye catches John Overs, sir, John Little, sir, Dick Jarrel, John Elwes, the Reverend Mr. Jones of Blewbury, Vulture Hopkins, Daniel Dancer—”

“Give us Dancer, Wegg,” said Mr. Boffin.

With another stare at his comrade, Silas sought and found the place.

“Page a hundred and nine, Mr. Boffin. Chapter eight. Contents of chapter, ‘His birth and estate. His garments and outward appearance. Miss Dancer and her feminine graces. The Miser’s Mansion. The finding of a treasure. The Story of the Mutton Pies. A Miser’s Idea of Death. Bob, the Miser’s cur. Griffiths and his Master. How to turn a penny. A substitute for a Fire. The Advantages of keeping a Snuff-box. The Miser dies without a Shirt. The Treasures of a Dunghill—’ ”

“Eh? What’s that?” demanded Mr. Boffin.

“ ‘The Treasures,’ sir,” repeated Silas, reading very distinctly, “ ‘of a Dunghill.’ Mr. Venus, sir, would you obleege with the snuffers?” This, to secure attention to his adding with his lips only, “Mounds!”