Mr. Pickwick Journeys to Ipswich, and meets with a Romantic Adventure with a Middle-aged Lady in Yellow Curl-papers
“That ’ere your governor’s luggage, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling bag and a small portmanteau.
“You might ha’ made a worser guess than that, old feller,” replied Mr. Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. “The governor hisself ’ll be down here presently.”
“He’s a cabbin’ it, I suppose?” said the father.
“Yes, he’s a havin’ two mile o’ danger at eightpence,” responded the son. “How’s mother-in-law this mornin’?”
“Queer, Sammy, queer,” replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive gravity. “She’s been gettin’ rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy; and she is uncommon pious, to be sure. She’s too good a creetur for me, Sammy. I feel I don’t deserve her.”
“Ah,” said Mr. Samuel, “that’s wery self-denyin’ o’ you.”
“Wery,” replied his parent, with a sigh. “She’s got hold o’ some inwention for grown-up people being born again, Sammy; the new birth, I thinks they calls it. I should wery much like to see that system in haction, Sammy. I should wery much like to see your mother-in-law born again. Wouldn’t I put her out to nurse!”
“What do you think them women does t’other day,” continued Mr. Weller, after a short pause, during which he had significantly struck the side of his nose with his fore-finger some half-dozen times. “What do you think they does, t’other day, Sammy?”