Waiters never
walk or run. They have a peculiar and mysterious power of
skimming out of rooms, which other mortals possess not.
Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in
Mr. Ben Allen by the soda-water, he suffered himself to be
prevailed upon to wash his face and hands, and to submit to be
brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob Sawyer having also
repaired the disorder which the journey had made in their
apparel, the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle's;
Bob Sawyer impregnating the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as
he walked along.
About a quarter of a mile off, in a quiet, substantial-looking
street, stood an old red brick house with three steps before the
door, and a brass plate upon it, bearing, in fat Roman capitals,
the words, 'Mr. Winkle.'The steps were very white, and the bricks
were very red, and the house was very clean; and here stood
Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the
clock struck ten.
A smart servant-girl answered the knock, and started on
beholding the three strangers.
'Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'He is just going to supper, Sir,' replied the girl.
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