Touts for licences!' said the gentleman.

Touts for licences,' replied Sam. 'Two coves in vhite aprons - touches

their hats ven you walk in - ’Licence, Sir, licence?’ Queer sort, them,

and their mas'rs, too, sir - Old Bailey Proctors - and no mistake.'

What do they do?' inquired the gentleman.

Do! You, Sir! That ain't the worst on it, neither. They puts things into

old gen'l'm'n's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a

coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything -

uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four

hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and

draw the blunt - very smart - top boots on - nosegay in his button-

hole - broad-brimmed tile - green shawl - quite the gen'l'm'n. Goes

through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money - up

comes the touter, touches his hat - ’Licence, Sir, licence?’ - ’What's

that?’ says my father. - ‘Licence, Sir,’ says he. - ’What licence?’ says

my father. - ‘Marriage licence,’ says the touter. - ’Dash my veskit,’

says my father, ‘I never thought o' that.’ - ’I think you wants one, Sir,’

says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit - ’No,’ says he,

‘damme, I'm too old, b'sides, I'm a many sizes too large,’ says he. - ’Not

a bit on it, Sir,’ says the touter. - ’Think not?’ says my father. - ’I'm

sure not,’ says he; ‘we married a gen'l'm'n twice your size, last

Monday.’ - ’Did you, though?’ said my father. - ’To be sure, we did,’

says the touter, ‘you're a babby to him - this way, sir - this way!’ - and

sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a

horgan, into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers,

and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. ‘Pray take a seat, vile I

makes out the affidavit, Sir,’ says the lawyer. - ’Thank'ee, Sir,’ says my

father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth

vide open, at the names on the boxes. ‘What's your name, Sir,’ says

the lawyer. - ’Tony Weller,’ says my father. - ’Parish?’ says the lawyer.

‘

Belle Savage,’ says my father; for he stopped there wen he drove up,

and he know'd nothing about parishes, he didn't. - ’And what's the

lady's name?’ says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap.

‘

Blessed if I know,’ says he. - ‘Not know!’ says the lawyer. - ’No more

nor you do,’ says my father; ‘can't I put that in arterwards?’ -

Impossible!’ says the lawyer. - ’Wery well,’ says my father, after he'd

’

thought a moment, ‘put down Mrs. Clarke.’ - ’What Clarke?’ says the

lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink. - ’Susan Clarke, Markis o' Granby,

Dorking,’ says my father; ‘she'll have me, if I ask. I des-say - I never

said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know.’ The licence was made

out, and she DID have him, and what's more she's got him now; and I

never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. Beg your

pardon, sir,' said Sam, when he had concluded, 'but wen I gets on this

here grievance, I runs on like a new barrow with the wheel greased.'

The Pickwick Papers