"Why, you old rogue," shouted the executioner, "you know that you sold William Lees's rope a dozen times over. The moment the real one was disposed of, you shoved a counterfeit into your winder; and that went off so well, that you kept on till you'd sold a dozen." "No, Smithers—never no such luck as that since Greenacre's business," said the undertaker, with a solemn shake of his head; "and then I believe I really did sell nineteen ropes in less than a week." "I only wonder people is such fools as to be gulled so," observed Smithers. "What can they say, when they see your certifikit that the rope's the true one?" demanded Banks. "There was one old gen'leman that dealt with me for a many—many years; and he bought the rope of every blessed defunct that had danced on nothing at Newgate for upwards of twenty year! I quite entered into his feeling, I did—I admired that man; and so I always sold him the real ropes. But time's passing, while I'm chattering here. Come, my dear Smithers—shall we say three shillings for the rope and certifikit this morning?" "Not a mag less than five," was the dogged answer. "Four, my dear friend Smithers?" said the undertaker, with a whining, coaxing tone and manner. "No—five, I tell you." "Well—five then," said Banks. "I'll be there at a few minits 'afore nine: I s'pose you'll cut the carkiss down at the usual hour?" "Yes—yes," answered Smithers. "I'm always punctiwal with the dead as well as the living." The undertaker muttered something about "blessed defuncts," smoothed down the limp ends of his dirty cravat, and slowly withdrew, shaking his head more solemnly than ever. "See what it is to be a Public Executioner!" cried Smithers, turning with an air of triumph towards his son: "look at the perk-visits—look at the priweleges! And yet you go snivelling about like a young gal, 'cos I want to make you fit to succeed me in my honourable profession."