“Eh, they are gathered,” said the Count.
“Indeed!” said Mr. Pickwick.
“They are here,” added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly. “Large book at home—full of notes—music, picture, science, potry, poltic; all tings.”
“The word politics, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “comprises, in itself, a difficult study of no inconsiderable magnitude.”
“Ah!” said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, “ver good—fine words to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by himself—” And down went Mr. Pickwick’s remark, in Count Smorltork’s tablets, with such variations and additions as the Count’s exuberant fancy suggested, or his imperfect knowledge of the language occasioned.
“Count,” said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
“Mrs. Hunt,” replied the Count.
“This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.”
“Stop!” exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. “Head, potry—chapter, literary friends—name, Snowgrass; ver good. Introduced to Snowgrass—great poet, friend of Peek Weeks—by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem—what is that name?—Frog—Perspiring Fog—ver good—ver good indeed.” And the Count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknowledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most important and valuable additions to his stock of information.
“Wonderful man, Count Smorltork,” said Mrs. Leo Hunter.