“He’s uncommon pale,” replied his father, “ ’cept about the nose, which is redder than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes wonderful.”

Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller’s mind, as he said this; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful; but he very shortly recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in which he was only wont to indulge when particularly pleased.

“Vell, now,” said Sam, “about my affair. Just open them ears o’ yourn, and don’t say nothin’ till I’ve done.” With this preface, Sam related, as succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had with Mr. Pickwick.

“Stop there by himself, poor creetur!” exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller, “without nobody to take his part! It can’t be done, Samivel, it can’t be done.”