Mr. Pickwick journeys to Ipswich and meets with a romantic adventure with a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers.
“That ’ere your governor’s luggage, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller of his affectionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull Inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling-bag and a small portmanteau.
“You might ha’ made a worser guess than that, old feller,” replied Mr. Weller the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon it afterwards. “The governor hisself’ll be down here presently.”
“He’s a-cabbin’ it, I suppose?” said the father.
“Yes, he’s a havin’ two mile o’ danger at eightpence,” responded the son. “How’s mother-in-law this mornin’?”