Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his spectacles (which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he proceeded, when his friends had exhausted themselves, to return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his recent assistance.

“Never mind,” said the stranger, cutting the address very short, “said enough⁠—no more; smart chap that cabman⁠—handled his fives well; but if I’d been your friend in the green jemmy⁠—damn me⁠—punch his head⁠—’cod I would⁠—pig’s whisper⁠—pieman too⁠—no gammon.”

This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester coachman, to announce that “the Commodore” was on the point of starting.

“Commodore!” said the stranger, starting up, “my coach⁠—place booked⁠—one outside⁠—leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water⁠—want change for a five⁠—bad silver⁠—Brummagem buttons⁠—won’t do⁠—no go⁠—eh?” and he shook his head most knowingly.