Mr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port, pulled his silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown himself back in an easy chair, when the entrance of Mr. Weller with his carpet bag aroused him from his tranquil meditations.
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Sir?” said Mr. Weller.
“I have just been thinking, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “that having left a good many things at Mrs. Bardell’s, in Goswell Street, I ought to arrange for taking them away, before I leave town again.”
“Wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“I could send them to Tupman’s, for the present, Sam,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “but before we take them away, it is necessary that they should be looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to Goswell Street, Sam, and arrange about it.”
“At once, sir?” inquired Mr. Weller.
“At once,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “And stay, Sam,” added Mr. Pickwick, pulling out his purse, “there is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due till Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done with it. A month’s notice terminates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bardell she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.”
“Wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “anythin’ more, sir?”
“Nothing more, Sam.”