“I say,” said Mr. Pickwick, growing gradually angry, “that I might have taken a greater revenge, but I content myself with exposing you, which I consider a duty I owe to society. This is a leniency, sir, which I hope you will remember.”
When Mr. Pickwick arrived at this point, Job Trotter, with facetious gravity, applied his hand to his ear, as if not desirous to lose a syllable he uttered.
“And I have only to add, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry, “that I consider you a rascal, and a—a ruffian—and—and worse than any man I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified vagabond in the mulberry livery.”
“Ha! ha!” said Jingle, “good fellow, Pickwick—fine heart—stout old boy—but must not be passionate—bad thing, very—bye-bye—see you again some day—keep up your spirits—now, Job—trot!”
With these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in the old fashion, and strode out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled, and then with a bow of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious slyness of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful master.
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following.
“Sir?”
“Stay here.”
Mr. Weller seemed uncertain.
“Stay here,” repeated Mr. Pickwick.