“I do,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Dear me,” said Mr. Magnus, “I never knew anything like these extraordinary coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine together?”
“With pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “I am not quite certain whether I have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name of Tupman here, waiter?”
A corpulent man, with a fortnight’s napkin under his arm, and coeval stockings on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the street, on this question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick; and, after minutely inspecting that gentleman’s appearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest button of his gaiters, replied emphatically:
“No.”
“Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“No.”
“Nor Winkle?”
“No.”
“My friends have not arrived to-day, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. “We will dine alone, then. Show us a private room, waiter.”