“Come, come,” interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter’s tears with considerable impatience, “blow this here water-cart bis’ness. It won’t do no good, this won’t.”
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, reproachfully, “I am sorry to find that you have so little respect for this young man’s feelings.”
“His feelin’s is all wery well, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “and as they’re so wery fine, and it’s a pity he should lose ’em, I think he’d better keep ’em in his own buzzum, than let ’em ewaporate in hot water, ’specially as they do no good. Tears never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingen’. The next time you go out to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe with that ’ere reflection; and for the present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. ’Tain’t so handsome that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope dancer.”
“My man is in the right,” said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, “although his mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally incomprehensible.”
“He is, sir, very right,” said Mr. Trotter, “and I will give way no longer.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Now, where is this boarding-school?”
“It is a large, old, red-brick house, just outside the town, sir,” replied Job Trotter.
“And when,” said Mr. Pickwick, “when is this villainous design to be carried into execution—when is this elopement to take place?”
“To-night, sir,” replied Job.