Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick’s innate good-feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof.
‘What is the name of the house?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘Westgate House, Sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.’
‘I know it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.’
Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand.
‘You’re a fine fellow,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember—eleven o’clock.’
‘There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,’ replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam.
‘I say,’ said the latter, ‘not a bad notion that ‘ere crying. I’d cry like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?’
‘It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,’ replied Job solemnly. ‘Good-morning, sir.’
‘You’re a soft customer, you are; we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,’ thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.