Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise; and it was not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round and led the way to the long-sought apartment.
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, as he got into bed, “I have made one of the most extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.”
“Wery likely, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, dryly.
“But of this I am determined, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick; “that if I were to stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it, alone, again.”
“That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “You rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir, ven your judgment goes out a wisitin’.”
“What do you mean by that, Sam?” said Mr. Pickwick. He raised himself in bed, and extended his hand, as if he were about to say something more; but suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet “Good night.”
“Good night, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the door—shook his head—walked on—stopped—snuffed the candle—shook his head again—and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the profoundest meditation.