‘And I have only to add, sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry, ‘that I consider you a rascal, and a--a--ruffian--and--and worse than any man I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified vagabond in the mulberry livery.’ ‘Ha! ha!’ said Jingle, ‘good fellow, Pickwick--fine heart--stout old boy--but must _not _be passionate--bad thing, very--bye, bye--see you again some day--keep up your spirits--now, Job--trot!’ With these words, Mr. Jingle stuck on his hat in his old fashion, and strode out of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled and then with a bow of mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious slyness of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful master. ‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following. ‘Sir.’ Stay here.’ Mr. Weller seemed uncertain. ‘Stay here,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mayn’t I polish that ‘ere Job off, in the front garden?’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Pickwick. ‘Mayn’t I kick him out o’ the gate, Sir?’ said Mr. Weller. ‘Not on any account,’ replied his master. For the first time since his engagement, Mr. Weller looked, for a moment, discontented and unhappy. But his countenance immediately cleared up; for the wily Mr. Muzzle, by concealing himself behind the street door, and rushing violently out, at the right instant, contrived with great dexterity to overturn both Mr. Jingle and his attendant, down the flight of steps, into the American aloe tubs that stood beneath. ‘Having discharged my duty, Sir,’ said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Nupkins, ‘I will, with my friends, bid you farewell. While we thank you for such hospitality as we have received, permit me to assure you, in our joint names, that we should not have accepted it, or have consented to extricate ourselves in this way, from our previous dilemma, had we not been impelled by a strong sense of duty. We return to London to-morrow. Your secret is safe with us.’ Having thus entered his protest against their treatment of the morning, Mr. Pickwick bowed low to the ladies, and notwithstanding the solicitations of the family, left the room with his friends. ‘Get your hat, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘It’s below stairs, Sir,’ said Sam, and he ran down after it. Now, there was nobody in the kitchen, but the pretty housemaid; and as Sam’s hat was mislaid, he had to look for it, and the pretty housemaid lighted him. They had to look all over the place for the hat. The pretty housemaid, in her anxiety to find it, went down on her knees, and turned over all the things that were heaped together in a little corner by the door. It was an awkward corner. You couldn’t get at it without shutting the door first. ‘Here it is,’ said the pretty housemaid. ‘This is it, ain’t it?’ ‘Let me look,’ said Sam.