“I should think so,” replied Sam, with a patronising wink. “Queer start that ’ere, but he was one too many for you, warn’t he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over⁠—eh?”

“Never mind that matter now,” said Mr. Pickwick hastily; “I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down.”

“Thank’ee, sir,” said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. “ ’Tain’t a wery good ’un to look at,” said Sam, “but it’s an astonishin’ ’un to wear; and afore the brim went, it was a wery handsome tile. Hows’ever it’s lighter without it, that’s one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that’s another⁠—wentilation gossamer I calls it.” On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians.