“Is Mr. Dodson in?” inquired Mr. Fogg.
“Just come in, sir,” replied Jackson.
“Ask him to step here.”
“Yes, sir.” Exit Jackson.
“Take a seat, sir,” said Fogg; “there is the paper, sir; my partner will be here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.”
Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but, instead of reading the latter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture trousers, and small black gaiters: a kind of being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or sentiment.
After a few minutes’ silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern-looking man, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversation commenced.
“This is Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg.
“Ah! You are the defendant, sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?” said Dodson.
“I am, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick.