‘

Wot's the last thing you dewoured?’ says the doctor. ‘Crumpets,’ says

the patient. ‘That's it!’ says the doctor. ‘I'll send you a box of pills

directly, and don't you never take no more of 'em,’ he says. ‘No more o'

wot?’ says the patient - ’pills?’ ‘No; crumpets,’ says the doctor. ‘Wy?’

says the patient, starting up in bed; ‘I've eat four crumpets, ev'ry night

for fifteen year, on principle.’ ‘Well, then, you'd better leave 'em off, on

principle,’ says the doctor. ‘Crumpets is NOT wholesome, Sir,’ says the

doctor, wery fierce. ‘But they're so cheap,’ says the patient, comin'

down a little, ‘and so wery fillin' at the price.’ ‘They'd be dear to you, at

any price; dear if you wos paid to eat 'em,’ says the doctor. ‘Four

crumpets a night,’ he says, ‘vill do your business in six months!’ The

patient looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a

long time, and at last he says, ‘Are you sure o' that 'ere, Sir?’ ‘I'll stake

my professional reputation on it,’ says the doctor. ‘How many

crumpets, at a sittin', do you think 'ud kill me off at once?’ says the

patient. ‘I don't know,’ says the doctor. ‘Do you think half-a-crown's

wurth 'ud do it?’ says the patient. ‘I think it might,’ says the doctor.

‘

Three shillins' wurth 'ud be sure to do it, I s'pose?’ says the patient.

Certainly,’ says the doctor. ‘Wery good,’ says the patient; ‘good-night.’

Next mornin' he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in three shillins' wurth o'

crumpets, toasts 'em all, eats 'em all, and blows his brains out.'

What did he do that for?' inquired Mr Pickwick abruptly; for he was

considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.

Wot did he do it for, Sir?' reiterated Sam. 'Wy, in support of his great

principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn't

be put out of his way for nobody!' With such like shiftings and

changings of the discourse, did Mr Weller meet his master's

questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet.

Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr Pickwick at length yielded

a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-

headed cobbler, who rented a small slip room in one of the upper

galleries. To this humble apartment Mr Weller moved a mattress and

bedding, which he hired of Mr Roker; and, by the time he lay down

upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been bred in the

prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three

generations.

Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?' inquired Mr

Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.

Yes, I does, young bantam,' replied the cobbler.

Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that

ere deal table?' said Sam.

The Pickwick Papers