“There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,” replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam.
“I say,” said the latter, “not a bad notion that ’ere crying. I’d cry like a rainwater spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?”
“It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,” replied Job, solemnly. “Good morning, sir.”
“You’re a soft customer, you are;—we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,” thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away.
We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter’s mind, because we don’t know what they were.
The day wore on, evening came, and a little before ten o’clock Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold.
Half-past ten o’clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam’s tender of his great-coat, in order that he might have no incumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant.
There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped—sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog.
They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden.
“You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,” said Mr. Pickwick.