‘Does the person want me, Sam?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘He wants you partickler; and no one else ‘ll do, as the devil’s private secretary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘He. Is it a gentleman?’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘A wery good imitation o’ one, if it ain’t,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘But this is a lady’s card,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Given me by a gen’l’m’n, howsoever,’ replied Sam, ‘and he’s a-waitin’ in the drawing-room—said he’d rather wait all day, than not see you.’
Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing-room, where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air of profound respect:—
‘Mr. Pickwick, I presume?’
‘The same.’
‘Allow me, Sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, Sir, to shake it,’ said the grave man.