They were shown to a comfortable apartment, and Mr.
Pickwick at once propounded a question to the waiter concerning
the whereabout of Mr. Winkle's residence.
'Close by, Sir,' said the waiter, 'not above five hundred yards,
Sir. Mr. Winkle is a wharfinger, Sir, at the canal, sir. Private
residence is not--oh dear, no, sir, not five hundred yards, sir.'
Here the waiter blew a candle out, and made a feint of lighting it
again, in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking
any further questions, if he felt so disposed.
'Take anything now, Sir?' said the waiter, lighting the candle
in desperation at Mr. Pickwick's silence. 'Tea or coffee, Sir?
Dinner, sir?'
'Nothing now.'
'Very good, sir. Like to order supper, Sir?'
'Not just now.'
'Very good, Sir.' Here, he walked slowly to the door, and then
stopping short, turned round and said, with great suavity--
'Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen?'
'You may if you please,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'If YOU please, sir.'
'And bring some soda-water,' said Bob Sawyer.
'Soda-water, Sir! Yes, Sir.' With his mind apparently relieved
from an overwhelming weight, by having at last got an order for
something, the waiter imperceptibly melted away.
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