a species of serpent in
the air with his hook. 'Lord, how that clock would go!'

For a moment or two he seemed quite lost in contemplating the pace of
this ideal timepiece, and sat looking at the boy as if his face were the
dial.

'But he's chockful of science,' he observed, waving his hook towards the
stock-in-trade. 'Look'ye here! Here's a collection of 'em. Earth, air,
or water. It's all one. Only say where you'll have it. Up in a balloon?
There you are. Down in a bell? There you are. D'ye want to put the North
Star in a pair of scales and weigh it? He'll do it for you.'

It may be gathered from these remarks that Captain Cuttle's reverence
for the stock of instruments was profound, and that his philosophy knew
little or no distinction between trading in it and inventing it.

'Ah!' he said, with a sigh, 'it's a fine thing to understand 'em. And
yet it's a fine thing not to understand 'em. I hardly know which
is best. It's so comfortable to sit here and feel that you might be
weighed, measured, magnified, electrified, polarized, played the very
devil with: and never know how.'

Nothing short of the wonderful Madeira, combined with the occasion
(which rendered it desirable to improve and expand Walter's mind), could
have ever loosened his tongue to the extent of giving utterance to this
prodigious oration. He seemed quite amazed himself at the manner in
which it opened up to view the sources of the taciturn delight he had
had in eating Sunday dinners in that parlour for ten years. Becoming a
sadder and a wiser man, he mused and held his peace.

'Come!' cried the subject of this admiration, returning. 'Before you
have your glass of grog, Ned, we must finish the bottle.'

'Stand by!' said Ned, filling his glass. 'Give the boy some more.'

'No more, thank'e, Uncle!'

'Yes, yes,' said Sol, 'a little more. We'll finish the bottle, to the
House, Ned--Walter's House. Why it may be his House one of these
days, in part. Who knows? Sir Richard Whittington married his master's
daughter.'

'"Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London, and when you are old you
will never depart from it,"' interposed the Captain. 'Wal'r! Overhaul
the book, my lad.'

'And although Mr Dombey hasn't a daughter,' Sol began.

'Yes, yes, he has, Uncle,' said the boy, reddening and laughing.

'Has he?' cried the old man. 'Indeed I think he has too.

'Oh! I know he has,' said the boy. 'Some of 'em were talking about it in
the office toda