'Here, sir,' cried Job.
'Come here, sir,' said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stern, with
four large tears running down his waistcoat. 'Take that, sir.'
Take what? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it
should have been a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have
been a sound, hearty cuff; for Mr. Pickwick had been duped,
deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast who was now
wholly in his power. Must we tell the truth? It was something
from Mr. Pickwick's waistcoat pocket, which chinked as it was
given into Job's hand, and the giving of which, somehow or other
imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a swelling to the heart, of our
excellent old friend, as he hurried away.
Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room,
and was inspecting the arrangements that had been made for his
comfort, with a kind of grim satisfaction which was very pleasant
to look upon. Having a decided objection to his master's being
there at all, Mr. Weller appeared to consider it a high moral duty
not to appear too much pleased with anything that was done,
said, suggested, or proposed.
'Well, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Well, sir,' replied Mr.
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