'
'So we had,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'very true; I can write to Bury,
and tell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But
don't hurry away, Mr. Weller; won't you take anything?'
'You're wery good, Sir,' replied Mr. W., stopping short;--
'perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health, and success
to Sammy, Sir, wouldn't be amiss.'
'Certainly not,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'A glass of brandy
here!' The brandy was brought; and Mr. Weller, after pulling his
hair to Mr. Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his
capacious throat as if it had been a small thimbleful.
'Well done, father,' said Sam, 'take care, old fellow, or you'll
have a touch of your old complaint, the gout.'
'I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller,
setting down the glass.
'A sovereign cure for the gout,' said Mr. Pickwick, hastily
producing his note-book--'what is it?'
'The gout, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller, 'the gout is a complaint as
arises from too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked
with the gout, sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud
woice, with a decent notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the
gout agin.
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