“What I mean, sir,” said Sam, “is, that the poorer a place is, the greater call there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir; here’s a oyster stall to every half-dozen houses. The street’s lined vith ’em. Blessed if I don’t think that ven a man’s wery poor, he rushes out of his lodgings, and eats oysters in reg’lar desperation.”
“To be sure he does,” said Mr. Weller senior; “and it’s just the same vith pickled salmon!”
“Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me before,” said Mr. Pickwick. “The very first place we stop at, I’ll make a note of them.”
By this time they had reached the turnpike at Mile End; a profound silence prevailed until they had got two or three miles further on, when Mr. Weller senior, turning suddenly to Mr. Pickwick, said:
“Wery queer life is a pike-keeper’s, sir.”
“A what?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“A pike-keeper.”
“What do you mean by a pike-keeper?” inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.
“The old ’un means a turnpike keeper, gen’lm’n,” observed Mr. Samuel Weller, in explanation.