“Why remarkable, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Walentine’s day, sir,” responded Sam; “reg’lar good day for a breach o’ promise trial.”
Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in silence.
They had walked some distance: Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody: when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said:
“Wery nice pork-shop that ’ere, sir.”
“Yes, it seems so,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Celebrated sassage factory,” said Sam.
“Is it?” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Is it!” reiterated Sam, with some indignation: “I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s where the mysterious disappearance of a ’spectable tradesman took place four year ago.”