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The Pickwick Papers 58

Elisha Cuthbert Photos


Martin Eden

The Pickwick Papers

The Sea Wolf

Look at these here boots--eleven pair o boots; and one shoe as belongs to number six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Whos number twenty-two, thats to put all the others out? No, no; reglar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, ven he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you a-waitin, Sir, but Ill attend to you directly. Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-boot with increased assiduity. There was another loud ring; and the bustling old landlady of the White Hart made her appearance in the opposite gallery. Sam, cried the landlady, wheres that lazy, idle-- why, Sam-- oh, there you are; why dont you answer? Vouldnt be gen-teel to answer, till youd done talking, replied Sam gruffly. Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly, and take em to private sitting-room, number five, first floor. The landlady flung a pair of ladys shoes into the yard, and bustled away. Number five, said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles--Ladys shoes and private sittin- room! I suppose she didnt come in the vagin. She came in early this morning, cried the girl, who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery, with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and its him as wants his boots, and youd better do em, thats all about it. Vy didnt you say so before, said Sam, with great indignation, singling out the boots in question from the heap before him. For all I knowd he was one o the regular threepennies. Private room! and a lady too! If hes anything of a genlmn, hes vurth a shillin a day, let alone the arrands. Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty good-will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used Day & Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five. Come in, said a mans voice, in reply to Sams rap at the door. Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentlemans boots right and left at his feet, and the ladys shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door. Boots, said the gentleman. Sir, said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock. Do you know--whats a-name--Doctors Commons? Yes, Sir. Where is it? Pauls Churchyard, Sir; low archway on the carriage side, booksellers at one corner, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences. Touts for licences! said the gentleman. Touts for licences, replied Sam. Two coves in vhite aprons-- touches their hats ven you walk in--"Licence, Sir, licence?" Queer sort, them, and their masrs, too, sir--Old Bailey Proctors --and no mistake. What do they do? inquired the gentleman. Do! You, Sir! That aint the worst on it, neither. They puts things into old genlmns heads as they never dreamed of. My father, Sir, wos a coachman. A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything--uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, to see the lawyer and draw the blunt--very smart--top boots on --nosegay in his button-hole--broad-brimmed tile--green shawl --quite the genlmn. Goes through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money--up comes the touter, touches his hat--"Licence, Sir, licence?"--"Whats that?" says my father.-- "Licence, Sir," says he.--"What licence?" says my father.-- "Marriage licence," says the touter.--"Dash my veskit," says my father, "I never thought o that."--"I think you wants one, Sir," says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks a bit--"No," says he, "damme, Im too old, bsides, Im a many sizes too large," says he.--"Not a bit on it, Sir," says the touter.--"Think not?" says my father.--"Im sure not," says he; "we married a genlmn twice your size, last Monday."--"Did you, though?" said my father.--"To be sure, we did," says the touter, "youre a babby to him--this way, sir--this way!"--and sure enough my father walks arter him, like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, vere a teller sat among dirty papers, and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. "Pray take

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