“Jump up in front, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “Now Villam, run ’em out. Take care o’ the archvay, gen’l’m’n. ‘Heads,’ as the pieman says. That’ll do, Villam. Let ’em alone.” And away went the coach up Whitechapel, to the admiration of the whole population of that pretty densely populated quarter.

“Not a wery nice neighbourhood, this, Sir,” said Sam, with a touch of the hat, which always preceded his entering into conversation with his master.

“It is not indeed, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and filthy street through which they were passing.

“It’s a wery remarkable circumstance, Sir,” said Sam, “that poverty and oysters always seem to go together.”

“I don’t understand you, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick.