When we came into the judge's presence my uncle, after two or three sea-bows, expressed himself in this manner; "Your servant, your servant.

What cheer, father?
what cheer?
I suppose you don't know me--mayhap you don't.

My name is Tom Bowling, and this here boy, you look as if you did not know him neither; 'tis like you mayn't.

He's new rigged, i'faith; his cloth don't shake in the wind so much as it wont to do.

'Tis my nephew, d'y see, Roderick Random--your own flesh and blood, old gentleman.