Come, Master,' said the Chicken. 'Is it to be gammon or pluck? Which?'

Chicken,' returned Mr Toots, 'your expressions are coarse, and your
meaning is obscure.'

'Why, then, I tell you what, Master,' said the Chicken. 'This is where
it is. It's mean.'

'What is mean, Chicken?' asked Mr Toots.

'It is,' said the Chicken, with a frightful corrugation of his broken
nose. 'There! Now, Master! Wot! When you could go and blow on this here
match to the stiff'un;' by which depreciatory appellation it has been
since supposed that the Game One intended to signify Mr Dombey; 'and
when you could knock the winner and all the kit of 'em dead out o' wind
and time, are you going to give in? To give in? 'said the Chicken, with
contemptuous emphasis. 'Wy, it's mean!'

'Chicken,' said Mr Toots, severely, 'you're a perfect Vulture! Your
sentiments are atrocious.'

'My sentiments is Game and Fancy, Master,' returned the Chicken. 'That's
wot my sentiments is. I can't abear a meanness. I'm afore the public,
I'm to be heerd on at the bar of the Little Helephant, and no Gov'ner
o' mine mustn't go and do what's mean. Wy, it's mean,' said the Chicken,
with increased expression. 'That's where it is. It's mean.'

'Chicken,' said Mr Toots, 'you disgust me.'

'Master,' returned the Chicken, putting on his hat, 'there's a pair on
us, then. Come! Here's a offer! You've spoke to me more than once't
or twice't about the public line. Never mind! Give me a fi'typunnote
to-morrow, and let me go.'

'Chicken,' returned Mr Toots, 'after the odious sentiments you have
expressed, I shall be glad to part on such terms.'

'Done then,' said the Chicken. 'It's a bargain. This here conduct of
yourn won't suit my book, Master. Wy, it's mean,' said the Chicken; who
seemed equally unable to get beyond that point, and to stop short of it.
'That's where it is; it's mean!'

So Mr Toots and the Chicken agreed to part on this incompatibility of
moral perception; and Mr Toots lying down to sleep, dreamed happily of
Florence, who had thought of him as her friend upon the last night of
her maiden life, and who had sent him her dear love.

CHAPTER 57. Another Wedding

Mr Sownds the beadle, and Mrs Miff the pew-opener, are early at their
posts in the fine church where Mr Dombey was married. A yellow-faced old
gentleman from India, is going to take unto himself a young wife this
morning, and six carriages full of company are expected, and Mrs Miff
has been in