“What did he do that for?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, abruptly, for he was considerably startled by this tragical termination of the narrative.
“Wot did he do it for, sir?” reiterated Sam. “Vy, in support of his great principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn’t be put out of his way for nobody!”
With such like shiftings and changings of the discourse, did Mr. Weller meet his master’s questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. Finding all gentle remonstrance useless, Mr. Pickwick at length yielded a reluctant consent to his taking lodgings by the week of a bald-headed cobbler, who rented a small slip-room in one of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment Mr. Weller moved a mattress and bedding which he hired of Mr. Roker; and by the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been bred in the prison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three generations.
“Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?” inquired Mr. Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night.
“Yes, I does, young bantam,” replied the cobbler.
“Will you allow me to in-quire vy you make up your bed under that ’ere deal table?” said Sam.
“’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find the legs of the table answer just as well,” replied the cobbler.
“You’re a character, sir,” said Sam.
“I haven’t got anything of the kind belonging to me,” rejoined the cobbler, shaking his head; “and if you want to meet with a good one, I’m afraid you’ll find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register office.”