‘I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,’ whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister—‘I’m quite certain of it—she looks so malicious.’
‘Is she?’ replied Isabella.—‘Hem! aunt, dear!’
‘Yes, my dear love!’
‘I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt—have a silk handkerchief to tie round your dear old head—you really should take care of yourself—consider your age!’
However well deserved this piece of retaliation might have been, it was as vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing in what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had not Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe.
‘Damn that boy,’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s gone to sleep again.’
‘Very extraordinary boy, that,’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘does he always sleep in this way?’
‘Sleep!’ said the old gentleman, ‘he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast asleep, and snores as he waits at table.’
‘How very odd!’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Ah! odd indeed,’ returned the old gentleman; ‘I’m proud of that boy—wouldn’t part with him on any account—he’s a natural curiosity! Here, Joe—Joe—take these things away, and open another bottle—d’ye hear?’