Wery good, sir,' replied Mr Weller; 'anythin' more, sir?'

Nothing more, Sam.'

Mr Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something

more; slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it

within a couple of inches, when Mr Pickwick called out -

'Sam.'

'Yes, sir,' said Mr Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door

behind him. 'I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to

ascertain how Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and

whether it is really probable that this vile and groundless action is to

be carried to extremity. I say I do not object to you doing this, if you

wish it, Sam,' said Mr Pickwick.

Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr Pickwick

drew the silk handkerchief once more over his head, And composed

himself for a nap. Mr Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his

commission.

It was nearly nine o'clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of

candles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps

were reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company.

Mr Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval -

occupied by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party

within, in persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be

lighted - a pair of small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and Master

Bardell presented himself.

Well, young townskip,' said Sam, 'how's mother?'

She's pretty well,' replied Master Bardell, 'so am I.'

Well, that's a mercy,' said Sam; 'tell her I want to speak to her, will

you, my hinfant fernomenon?'

Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the

bottom stair, and vanished into the front parlour with his message.

The two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective head-

dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bardell's most particular acquaintance,

who had just stepped in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm

supper of a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The

cheese was simmering and browning away, most delightfully, in a

little Dutch oven before the fire; the pettitoes were getting on

The Pickwick Papers