“Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,” said the visitor, drawing one of them back from the bed’s head. “I’ve got an execution against you, at the suit of Bardell.⁠—Here’s the warrant.⁠—Common Pleas.⁠—Here’s my card. I suppose you’ll come over to my house.” Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff’s officer (for such he was) threw his card on the counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket.

“Namby’s the name,” said the sheriff’s deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card. “Namby, Bell Alley, Coleman Street.”

At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr. Namby’s shining beaver, interfered.