‘I say,’ said the latter, ‘not a bad notion that ‘ere crying. I’d cry like a rain-water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it?’ ‘It comes from the heart, Mr. Walker,’ replied Job solemnly. ‘Good- morning, sir.’ ‘You’re a soft customer, you are; we’ve got it all out o’ you, anyhow,’ thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away. We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through Mr. Trotter’s mind, because we don’t know what they were. The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o’clock Sam Weller reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execution, as Mr. Trotter had foretold. Half-past ten o’clock arrived, and it was time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on his delicate errand. Resisting Sam’s tender of his greatcoat, in order that he might have no encumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, followed by his attendant. There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees, were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything was wrapped--sound there was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog. They found the house, read the brass plate, walked round the wall, and stopped at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden. ‘You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Wery well, Sir.’ ‘And you will sit up, till I return.’ ‘Cert’nly, Sir.’ ‘Take hold of my leg; and, when I say “Over,” raise me gently.’ ‘All right, sir.’ Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word ‘Over,’ which was literally obeyed. Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller’s notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick’s, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose- tree, he finally alighted at full length. ‘You ha’n’t hurt yourself, I hope, Sir?’ said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he had recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master. ‘I have not hurt _myself_, Sam, certainly,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, ‘but I rather think that _you _have hurt me.’ ‘I hope not, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Never mind,’ said Mr. Pickwick, rising, ‘it’s nothing but a few scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.’ ‘Good-bye, Sir.’ ‘Good-bye.’ With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the garden.