‘Ay. What is that?’
‘Vy, sir,’ said Sam, grinning still more, ‘he wishes to know vether she—’
‘In short,’ interposed old Mr. Weller decisively, a perspiration breaking out upon his forehead, ‘vether that ’ere old creetur is or is not a widder.’
Mr. Pickwick laughed heartily, and so did I, as I replied decisively, that ‘my housekeeper was a spinster.’
‘There!’ cried Sam, ‘now you’re satisfied. You hear she’s a spinster.’
‘A wot?’ said his father, with deep scorn.
‘A spinster,’ replied Sam.
Mr. Weller looked very hard at his son for a minute or two, and then said,
‘Never mind vether she makes jokes or not, that’s no matter. Wot I say is, is that ’ere female a widder, or is she not?’
‘Wot do you mean by her making jokes?’ demanded Sam, quite aghast at the obscurity of his parent’s speech.