“Ah,” said Mr. John Smauker, “you disliked the killibeate taste, perhaps?”
“I don’t know much about that ’ere,” said Sam. “I thought they’d a wery strong flavour o’ warm flat-irons.”
“That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,” observed Mr. John Smauker, contemptuously.
“Well, if it is, it’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,” said Sam. “It may be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t say.” And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.
And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller,” said Mr. John Smauker, agonised at the exceedingly ungenteel sound, “will you take my arm?”
“Thankee, you’re wery good, but I won’t deprive you of it,” replied Sam. “I’ve rayther a way o’ puttin’ my hands in my pockets, if it’s all the same to you.” As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word, and whistled far louder than before.