“Not to-morrow,” said Wardle; “you’re too lame.”
“Well, then, next day.”
“Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds, at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don’t take the field.”
“Well, then, the day after,” said Mr. Pickwick; “Thursday—Sam!”
“Sir?” replied Mr. Weller.
“Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.”
“Wery well, sir.”
Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
“Rum feller, the hemperor,” said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. “Think o’ his making up to that ’ere Mrs. Bardell—vith a little boy, too! Always the vay with these here old ’uns hows’ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though—I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it!” Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.