‘Now, sir,’ argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, ‘if I can get a talk with this here servant in the mornin’, he’ll tell me all his master’s concerns.’ ‘How do you know that?’ interposed Mr. Pickwick. ‘Bless your heart, sir, servants always do,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘Oh, ah, I forgot that,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Well.’ ‘Then you can arrange what’s best to be done, sir, and we can act accordingly.’ As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master’s permission, retired to spend the evening in his own way; and was shortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous voice of the assembled company, into the taproom chair, in which honourable post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick’s bedroom, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours. Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, through the instrumentality of a halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young gentleman attached to the stable department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was perfectly restored), when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry- coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what appeared to be a hymn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he took some interest in his proceedings, nevertheless. ‘You’re a rum ‘un to look at, you are!’ thought Mr. Weller, the first time his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit, who had a large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which depended a quantity of lank black hair. ‘You’re a rum ‘un!’ thought Mr. Weller; and thinking this, he went on washing himself, and thought no more about him. Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his hymn-book, as if he wanted to open a conversation. So at last, Sam, by way of giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod-- ‘How are you, governor?’ ‘I am happy to say, I am pretty well, Sir,’ said the man, speaking with great deliberation, and closing the book. ‘I hope you are the same, Sir?’ ‘Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle I shouldn’t be quite so staggery this mornin’,’ replied Sam. ‘Are you stoppin’ in this house, old ‘un?’ The mulberry man replied in the affirmative. ‘How was it you worn’t one of us, last night?’ inquired Sam, scrubbing his face with the towel. ‘You seem one of the jolly sort--looks as conwivial as a live trout in a lime basket,’ added Mr. Weller, in an undertone. ‘I was out last night with my master,’ replied the stranger.