Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up
to the window, and pulled him gently by the coat tail. The
individual brought in his head and shoulders with great swiftness,
and surveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a
surly tone what the--something beginning with a capital H--he wanted.
'I believe,' said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket--'I believe
this is twenty-seven in the third?'
'Well?' replied the gentleman.
'I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of
paper,' rejoined Mr. Pickwick.
'Hand it over,' said the gentleman.
Mr. Pickwick complied.
'I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,' said
Mr. Simpson (for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of
a pause.
Mr. Pickwick thought so also; but, under all the circumstances,
he considered it a matter of sound policy to be silent.
Mr. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then,
thrusting his head out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and
pronounced some word aloud, several times. What the word was,
Mr. Pickwick could not distinguish; but he rather inferred that
it must be some nickname which distinguished Mr. Martin, from
the fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below,
immediately proceeding to cry 'Butcher!' in imitation of the tone
in which that useful class of society are wont, diurnally, to make
their presence known at area railings.
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