that name.
    »Won't do,« said Sam. »Never sign a walentine with your own name.«
    »Sign it Pickvick, then,« said Mr. Weller; »it's a werry good name, and a
easy one to spell.«
    »The wery thing,« said Sam. »I could end with a werse; what do you think?«
    »I don't like it, Sam,« rejoined Mr. Weller. »I never know'd a respectable
coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the
night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man,
so even that's no rule.«
    But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to
him, so he signed the letter,
 
                                »Your love-sick
                                   Pickwick.«
 
And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, squeezed a down-hill direction
in one corner: »To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's Mayor's, Ipswich, Suffolk;«
and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the General Post. This
important business having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to
open that, on which he had summoned his son.
    »The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,« said Mr. Weller. »He's a
goin' to be tried to-morrow, ain't he?«
    »The trial's a comin' on,« replied Sam.
    »Vell,« said Mr. Weller, »Now I s'pose he'll want to call some witnesses to
speak to his character, or p'haps to prove a alleybi. I've been a turnin' the
bis'ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I've got some
friends as'll do either for him, but my adwice 'ud be this here - never mind the
character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.«
Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying
his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son.
    »Why, what do you mean?« said Sam; »you don't think he's a goin' to be tried
at the Old Bailey, do you?«
    »That ain't no part of the present con