“The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.”
“My servant will give me a leg up,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, mechanically. “You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?”
“You cannot mistake it, sir; it’s the only one that opens into the garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.”
“I don’t like the plan,” said Mr. Pickwick; “but as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady’s whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there.”
Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick’s innate good-feeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof.
“What is the name of the house?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.”
“I know it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me.”
Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand.
“You’re a fine fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, “and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember—eleven o’clock.”