Mr. Sam Bossom entered. He entered and halted, rubbing his eyes with
the back of his hand, which, grimed as it was with coal grit, but
further inflamed their red rims. In the centre of the yard, which had
been empty when he went to work, stood a large yellow caravan; and on
the steps of the caravan sat a man--a stranger--peeling potatoes over a
bucket.

"Hullo!" said Sam.

The stranger--a long-faced man with a dead complexion, an abundance of
dark hair, and a blue chin--nodded gloomily.

"The surprise," he answered, "is mutual. If it comes to _that_, young
man, you are not looking your best either; though doubtless, if washed
off, it would reveal a countenance not sicklied o'er with the pale cast
of thought--thought such as, alas! must be mine--thought which, if
acquainted with the poets, you will recognise as lying too deep for
tears."

"Governor settin' up in a new line?" asked Sam, slowly contemplating the
caravan and a large tarpaulin-covered wagon that stood beside it with
shafts resting on the ground.

"If, my friend, you allude to Mr. Christopher Hucks, he is not setting
up in any new line, but pursuing a fell career on principles which (I am
credibly informed) are habitual to him, and for which I can only hope he
will be sorry when he is dead. The food, sir, of Mr. Christopher Hucks
is still the bread of destitution; his drink, the tears of widows; and
the groans of the temporarily embarrassed supply the music of his
unhallowed feast."