‘Here’s an old ‘ooman comin’ upstairs, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller; ‘p’raps she knows where we can find somebody. Hollo, old lady, vere’s Mr. Perker’s people?’
‘Mr. Perker’s people,’ said a thin, miserable-looking old woman, stopping to recover breath after the ascent of the staircase—‘Mr. Perker’s people’s gone, and I’m a-goin’ to do the office out.’
Are you Mr. Perker’s servant?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘I am Mr. Perker’s laundress,’ replied the woman.
‘Ah,’ said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, ‘it’s a curious circumstance, Sam, that they call the old women in these inns, laundresses. I wonder what’s that for?’
‘’Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin’, I suppose, Sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.
‘I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by this time opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application of soap and water; ‘do you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good woman?’
‘No, I don’t,’ replied the old woman gruffly; ‘he’s out o’ town now.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘where’s his clerk? Do you know?’
‘Yes, I know where he is, but he won’t thank me for telling you,’ replied the laundress.