Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of the young gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the stranger.
‘I wonder whether Fogg’s disengaged now?’ said Jackson.
‘I’ll see,’ said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. ‘What name shall I tell Mr. Fogg?’
‘Pickwick,’ replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs.
Mr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand, and immediately returned with a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and having delivered it, returned again to his desk.
‘What did he say his name was?’ whispered Wicks.
‘Pickwick,’ replied Jackson; ‘it’s the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick.’
A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter, was heard from behind the partition.
‘They’re a-twiggin’ of you, Sir,’ whispered Mr. Weller.
‘Twigging of me, Sam!’ replied Mr. Pickwick; ‘what do you mean by twigging me?’