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Updated: May 26, 2025
'My father's wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe; he steps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and falls into 'sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes to agin. That's philosophy, Sir, ain't it? 'A very good substitute for it, at all events, replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing.
Weller, senior, refilled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his pocket; and, lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old One, commenced smoking at a great rate. 'Beg your pardon, sir, he said, renewing the subject, and addressing Mr. Pickwick, after a considerable pause, 'nothin' personal, I hope, sir; I hope you ha'n't got a widder, sir. 'Not I, replied Mr.
"Queer old places," said I. "Not at all," said he. "Lonely," said I. "Not a bit of it," said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen months. Everybody thought he'd gone out of town. 'And how was he found out at last? inquired Mr. Pickwick.
If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends. 'You mean to dance? said Wardle. 'Of course I do, replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Don't you see I am dressed for the purpose? Mr.
Pickwick deepest obligations life preserver made a man of me you shall never repent it, Sir. 'I am happy to hear you say so, said Mr. Pickwick. 'You look much better. 'Thanks to you, sir great change Majesty's Fleet unwholesome place very, said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly dressed, and so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at Mr.
Pickwick took a last look at his little room, and made his way as well as he could through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the lodge steps. He turned here to look about him, and his eye brightened as he did so. In all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not the happier for his sympathy and charity.
As Sam spoke he pointed to that part of the door on which the proprietor's name usually appears, and there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly size, was the magic name of PICKWICK. "Dear me," said Mr. Pickwick, quite staggered by the coincidence, "what a very extraordinary thing!" "Yes; but that ain't all," said Sam, again directing his master's attention to the coach-door.
On the Barbary Coast Hardy had chased pirates. In Edinburgh Marshall had played chess with Carlyle. He had seen Paris in mourning in the days of the siege, Paris in terror in the days of the Commune; he had known Garibaldi, Gambetta, the younger Dumas, the creator of Pickwick. "Do you remember that time in Tangier," the admiral urged, "when I was a midshipman, and got into the bashaw's harem?"
Half-past ten o'clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam's tender of his greatcoat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant. There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark.
'Shout with the largest, replied Mr. Pickwick. They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for the night. 'Can we have beds here? inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter.
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