nothin' at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months

arterwards, wenever a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg'lar

thing, straight off to the sassage shop. Hows'ever, none on 'em

answered; so they gave out that he'd run away, and she kep' on the

bis'ness. One Saturday night, a little, thin, old gen'l'm'n comes into

the shop in a great passion and says, ‘Are you the missis o' this here

shop?’ ‘Yes, I am,’ says she. ‘Well, ma'am,’ says he, ‘then I've just

looked in to say that me and my family ain't a-goin' to be choked for

nothin'; and more than that, ma'am,’ he says, ‘you'll allow me to

observe that as you don't use the primest parts of the meat in the

manafacter o' sassages, I'd think you'd find beef come nearly as cheap

as buttons.’ ‘As buttons, Sir!’ says she. ‘Buttons, ma'am,’ says the

little, old gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and showin' twenty or

thirty halves o' buttons. ‘Nice seasonin' for sassages, is trousers'

buttons, ma'am.’ ‘They're my husband's buttons!’ says the widder

beginnin' to faint, ‘What!’ screams the little old gen'l'm'n, turnin' wery

pale. ‘I see it all,’ says the widder; ‘in a fit of temporary insanity he

rashly converted hisself into sassages!’ And so he had, Sir,' said Mr

Weller, looking steadily into Mr Pickwick's horror-stricken

countenance, 'or else he'd been draw'd into the ingin; but however

that might ha' been, the little, old gen'l'm'n, who had been remarkably

partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o' the shop in a wild state,

and was never heerd on arterwards!'

The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master

and man to Mr Perker's chambers. Lowten, holding the door half

open, was in conversation with a rustily-clad, miserable- looking man,

in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of

privation and suffering - almost of despair - in his lank and care-worn

countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrank to the dark side of the

staircase as Mr Pickwick approached.

'It's very unfortunate,' said the stranger, with a sigh.

'Very,' said Lowten, scribbling his name on the doorpost with his pen,

and rubbing it out again with the feather. 'Will you leave a message for

him?'

When do you think he'll be back?' inquired the stranger.

Quite uncertain,' replied Lowten, winking at Mr Pickwick, as the

stranger cast his eyes towards the ground.

You don't think it would be of any use my waiting for him?' said the

stranger, looking wistfully into the office.

Oh, no, I'm sure it wouldn't,' replied the clerk, moving a little more

into the centre of the doorway. 'He's certain not to be back this week,

The Pickwick Papers