“Yes, sir.”

“Buttered toast, mind,” said the gentleman fiercely.

“Directly, sir,” replied the waiter.

The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as before, and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of the fire, and, taking his coat tails under his arms, looked at his boots and ruminated.

“I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,” said Mr. Pickwick, mildly addressing Mr. Winkle.

“Hum⁠—eh⁠—what’s that?” said the strange man.