Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner,
and was waiting at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which
Mr. Pickwick had requested him to drown the fatigues of his
morning's walks, when a young boy of about three feet high, or
thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian overalls, whose garb
bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of
an hostler, entered the passage of the George and Vulture, and
looked first up the stairs, and then along the passage, and then
into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom he bore a
commission; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not
improbable that the said commission might be directed to the tea or
table spoons of the establishment, accosted the boy with--
'Now, young man, what do you want?'
'Is there anybody here, named Sam?' inquired the youth, in a
loud voice of treble quality.
'What's the t'other name?' said Sam Weller, looking round.
'How should I know?' briskly replied the young gentleman
below the hairy cap.
'You're a sharp boy, you are,' said Mr. Weller; 'only I
wouldn't show that wery fine edge too much, if I was you, in case
anybody took it off.
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