“I don’t think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure of seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.”
“Possibly not, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth looks of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on either of the sharp practitioners; “I believe I am not, sir. I have been persecuted and annoyed by Scoundrels of late, sir.”
Perker coughed violently, and asked Mr. Pickwick whether he wouldn’t like to look at the morning paper? To which inquiry Mr. Pickwick returned a most decided negative.
“True,” said Dodson, “I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet; there are some odd gentry there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. Pickwick?”
“My one room,” replied that much injured gentleman, “was on the Coffee Room flight.”
“Oh, indeed!” said Dodson. “I believe that is a very pleasant part of the establishment.”
“Very,” replied Mr. Pickwick, dryly.
There was a coolness about all this, which, to a gentleman of an excitable temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic efforts; but when Perker wrote a cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket-book with a triumphant smile playing over his pimply features which communicated itself likewise to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks tingling with indignation.
“Now, Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on his gloves, “I am at your service.”