“You’re wery good, Sir,” replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glass. “Yours, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s wery bad tonight, Sir,” said Roker, setting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting it on again.

“What! The Chancery prisoner!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

“He won’t be a Chancery prisoner wery long, Sir,” replied Roker, turning his hat round, so as to get the maker’s name right side upwards, as he looked into it.

“You make my blood run cold,” said Mr. Pickwick. “What do you mean?”