“Ha! ha!” said Jingle, “good fellow, Pickwick⁠—fine heart⁠—stout old boy⁠—but must not be passionate⁠—bad thing, very⁠—bye, bye⁠—see you again some day⁠—keep up your spirits⁠—now, Job⁠—trot!”

With these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in his old fashion, and strode out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled and then with a bow of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious slyness of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful master.

“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following.

“Sir.”