“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

“A glass of brandy here!” The brandy was brought; and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small thimbleful.

“Well done, father,” said Sam, “take care, old fellow, or you’ll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout.”

“I’ve found a sov’rin’ cure for that, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, setting down the glass.

“A sovereign cure for the gout,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his notebook⁠—“what is it?”