"No?" said Mr. Trapman playfully. "I thought you might be goin in for the heavy father, Griffiths, or the comic countryman, since your tour in the provinces." Mr. Griffiths grinned, and declared that Mr. Trapman was "a chaffin' him." "My friend, Mr. D'Ossay--Effingham is more in that line," he said; "a neat figure, and a smart way he's got." "Charles Surface, Mercushow, Roderigo,--touch-and-go comedy,--that's his line," said Mr. Trapman, glancing at Mr. Effingham. "One fi'-pun-note of the Bank of England, and he opens at Sunderland next week." Mr. Effingham had been staring in mute wonder at this professional conversation; but he understood the last sentence, and thought enough time had been spent in discussing what they didn't want to know. So he put on his impetuous air and said to Griffiths, "Go in at him now!" Thus urged, and taking his cue at once, Mr. Griffiths said, "No, no; you've mistaken our line. What we want of you is a little information. Oh, we're prepared to pay the fee!" he added, seeing Mr. Trapman's face grow grave under a rapid impression of wasted time; "only--no fakement; let's have it gospel, or not at all." "Fire away!" said Mr. Trapman. "I'm here to be pumped--for a sovereign!" The coin was produced, and handed over. "Now," said Mr. Trapman, having tested it with his teeth, and then being satisfied, stretched out his arm in imitation of a pump-handle, "go to work!" "You recollect," said Griffiths, "telling me, when we met down at Hull, that one of our old lot had been to see you lately--a girl called Lizzie Ponsford." "I do perfectly." "It's about her we want to know--that's all."