Chapter 40 - Page 2

imperious tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.

'Now, Sir, wot's the matter?' replied Sam, returning the push
with compound interest.

'Come, none of this, my man; this won't do with me,' said the
owner of the rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white.
'Here, Smouch!'

'Well, wot's amiss here?' growled the man in the brown coat, who
had been gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.

'Only some insolence of this young man's,' said the principal,
giving Sam another push.

'Come, none o' this gammon,' growled Smouch, giving him
another, and a harder one.

This last push had the effect which it was intended by the
experienced Mr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to
return the compliment, was grinding that gentleman's body
against the door-post, the principal crept past, and made his way
to the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a few epithetical remarks
with Mr. Smouch, followed at once.

'Good-morning, my dear,' said the principal, addressing the
young lady at the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South
Wales gentility; 'which is Mr. Pickwick's room, my dear?'

'Show him up,' said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigning
another look at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.

The waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the man
in the rough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in his
progress up the staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative
of supreme contempt and defiance, to the unspeakable gratification
of the servants and other lookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who was
troubled with a hoarse cough, remained below, and expectorated
in the passage.

Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor,
followed by Sam, entered the room. The noise they made, in so
doing, awoke him.

'Shaving-water, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.

'Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,' said the visitor, drawing
one of them back from the bed's head. 'I've got an execution
against you, at the suit of Bardell.--Here's the warrant.--
Common Pleas.--Here's my card. I suppose you'll come over to
my house.' Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder,
the sheriff's officer (for such he was) threw his card on the
counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.

'Namby's the name,' said the sheriff's deputy, as Mr. Pickwick
took his spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to
read the card. 'Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.'

At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto
on Mr. Namby's shining beaver, interfered.

'Are you a Quaker?' said Sam.

'I'll let you know I am, before I've done with you,'