“I trust, ma’am,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, “that my unblemished character and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex——”
Whatever grounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house, in the middle of the night, half dressed; it was not to be supposed that he could find his way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. He had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So after groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess in the wall, to wait for morning as philosophically as he might.
He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience: for he had not long been ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeakable horror, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His horror was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the form of his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who, after sitting up thus late in conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now about to retire to rest.
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, “where’s my bedroom?”
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “where’s my bedroom?”