“Close by, Sir,” said the waiter, “not above five hundred yards, Sir. Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not⁠—oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.” Here the waiter blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it again, in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking any further questions, if he felt so disposed.

“Take anything now, Sir?” said the waiter, lighting the candle in desperation at Mr. Pickwick’s silence. “Tea or coffee, Sir? Dinner, sir?”

“Nothing now.”

“Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?”

“Not just now.”