Pickwick
proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighbourhood of the
George and Vulture, and that the two young men should for
the present take up their quarters elsewhere. To this they very
readily agreed, and the proposition was accordingly acted
upon; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking themselves
to a sequestered pot-shop on the remotest confines of the
Borough, behind the bar door of which their names had in
other days very often appeared at the head of long and complex
calculations worked in white chalk.
'Dear me, Mr. Weller,' said the pretty housemaid, meeting
Sam at the door.
'Dear ME I vish it vos, my dear,' replied Sam, dropping
behind, to let his master get out of hearing. 'Wot a sweet-
lookin' creetur you are, Mary!'
'Lot, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk!' said Mary.
'Oh! don't, Mr. Weller."
'Don't what, my dear?' said Sam.
'Why, that,' replied the pretty housemaid. 'Lor, do get along
with you.' Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed
Sam against the wall, declaring that he had tumbled her cap,
and put her hair quite out of curl.
'And prevented what I was going to say, besides,' added Mary.
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