Pott, of the Eatanswill GAZETTE.
'Beggin' your pardon, sir,' said Sam, advancing with a bow,
'my master's here, Mr. Pott.'
'Hush! hush!' cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and
closing the door, with a countenance of mysterious dread and
apprehension.
'Wot's the matter, Sir?' inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him.
'Not a whisper of my name,' replied Pott; 'this is a buff
neighbourhood. If the excited and irritable populace knew I was
here, I should be torn to pieces.'
'No! Vould you, sir?' inquired Sam.
'I should be the victim of their fury,' replied Pott. 'Now
young man, what of your master?'
'He's a-stopping here to-night on his vay to town, with a
couple of friends,' replied Sam.
'Is Mr. Winkle one of them?' inquired Pott, with a slight frown.
'No, Sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,' rejoined Sam. 'He's
married.'
'Married!' exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He
stopped, smiled darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone, 'It
serves him right!'
Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and
cold-blooded triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired
whether Mr. Pickwick's friends were 'blue?' Receiving a most
satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam, who knew as
much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented to accompany
him to Mr.
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