'Delightful prospect, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Beats the chimbley-pots, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching
his hat.
'I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots
and bricks and mortar all your life, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling.
'I worn't always a boots, sir,' said Mr. Weller, with a shake of
the head. 'I wos a vaginer's boy, once.'
'When was that?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to play
at leap-frog with its troubles,' replied Sam. 'I wos a carrier's boy
at startin'; then a vaginer's, then a helper, then a boots. Now I'm
a gen'l'm'n's servant. I shall be a gen'l'm'n myself one of these
days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a summer-house in
the back-garden. Who knows? I shouldn't be surprised for one.'
'You are quite a philosopher, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'It runs in the family, I b'lieve, sir,' replied Mr. Weller. 'My
father's wery much in that line now. If my mother-in-law blows
him up, he whistles. She flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe;
he steps out, and gets another. Then she screams wery loud, and
falls into 'sterics; and he smokes wery comfortably till she comes
to agin.
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