'Very good,' said Mr Pickwick, with unmoved patience. 'Then we will

have a chop here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be

punctual.'

Mr Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and

arguments of Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due

course; he was then put into another hackney coach, and carried off

to Chancery Lane, after waiting half an hour or so for Mr Namby, who

had a select dinner-party and could on no account be disturbed

before.

There were two judges in attendance at Serjeant's Inn - one King's

Bench, and one Common Pleas - and a great deal of business

appeared to be transacting before them, if the number of lawyer's

clerks who were hurrying in and out with bundles of papers, afforded

any test. When they reached the low archway which forms the

entrance to the inn, Perker was detained a few moments parlaying

with the coachman about the fare and the change; and Mr Pickwick,

stepping to one side to be out of the way of the stream of people that

were pouring in and out, looked about him with some curiosity.

The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of

shabby-genteel appearance, who touched their hats to many of the

attorneys who passed, and seemed to have some business there, the

nature of which Mr Pickwick could not divine. They were curious-

looking fellows. One was a slim and rather lame man in rusty black,

and a white neckerchief; another was a stout, burly person, dressed in

the same apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his neck; a

third was a little weazen, drunken-looking body, with a pimply face.

They were loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now

and then with an anxious countenance whispered something in the

ear of some of the gentlemen with papers, as they hurried by. Mr

Pickwick remembered to have very often observed them lounging

under the archway when he had been walking past; and his curiosity

was quite excited to know to what branch of the profession these

dingy-looking loungers could possibly belong.

He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close

beside him, sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker

bustled up, and observing that there was no time to lose, led the way

into the inn. As Mr Pickwick followed, the lame man stepped up to

him, and civilly touching his hat, held out a written card, which Mr

Pickwick, not wishing to hurt the man's feelings by refusing,

courteously accepted and deposited in his waistcoat pocket.

'Now,' said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices,

to see that his companions were close behind him. 'In here, my dear

sir. Hallo, what do you want?'

The Pickwick Papers