“By all means,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“I’ve brought you a softer pillow, sir,” said Roker, “instead of the temporary one you had last night.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Will you take a glass of wine?”
“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glass. “Yours, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s every bad to-night, sir,” said Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it on again.
“What! The Chancery prisoner!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
“He won’t be a Chancery prisoner wery long, sir,” replied Roker, turning his hat round, so as to get the maker’s name right side upwards, as he looked into it.
“You make my blood run cold,” said Mr. Pickwick. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been consumptive for a long time past,” said Mr. Roker, “and he’s taken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago, that nothing but change of air could save him.”