This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that particular portion of Mr. Smangle’s attire, by the appearance of which the skill of laundresses in getting up gentlemen’s linen is generally tested, that he was fain to turn upon his heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick’s purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, where he made a light and wholesome breakfast on a couple of the cigars which had been purchased on the previous night.
Mr. Mivins, who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of chandlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been “carried over” to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, “took it out in sleep.”
After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore the imposing title of the Snuggery; the temporary inmate of which, in consideration of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of overhearing all the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid; and after despatching Mr. Weller on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the Lodge, to consult Mr. Roker concerning his future accommodation.
“Accommodation, eh?” said that gentleman, consulting a large book. “Plenty of that, Mr. Pickvick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty-seven, in the third.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Pickwick, “my what, did you say?”
“Your chummage ticket,” replied Mr. Roker; “you’re up to that?”
“Not quite,” replied Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
“Why,” said Mr. Roker, “it’s as plain as Salisbury. You’ll have a chummage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the room will be your chums.”
“Are there many of them?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, dubiously.
“Three,” replied Mr. Roker.