“Quite, I thank you,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“I wanted to have a little bit o’ conwersation with you, sir,” said Mr. Weller, “if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “Sam, give your father a chair.”
“Thankee, Samivel, I’ve got a cheer here,” said Mr. Weller, bringing one forward as he spoke; “uncommon fine day it’s been sir,” added the old gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.
“Remarkably so indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “Very seasonable.”
“Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being terminated, he nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory and threatening gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily abstained from seeing.
Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old gentleman’s part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book that lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive at the object of his visit.
“I never see sich a aggerawatin’ boy as you are, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, looking indignantly at his son; “never in all my born days.”
“What is he doing, Mr. Weller?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.