Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more; slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out—
“Sam.”
“Sir?” said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind him.
“I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable that this vile and groundless action is to be carried to extremity. I say I do not object to your doing this, if you wish it, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick.
Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick drew the silk handkerchief once more over his head, and composed himself to a nap. Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission.
It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of candles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps were reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company.
Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval—occupied by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party within, in persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted—a pair of small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and Master Bardell presented himself.
“Well, young townskip,” said Sam, “how’s mother?”
“She’s pretty well,” replied Master Bardell, “so am I.”
“Well, that’s a mercy,” said Sam; “tell her I want to speak to her, will you, my hinfant fernomenon?”