gen'l'm'n would ha' done, he got more abusive than ever: called me a wessel, Sammy--a wessel of wrath-- and all sorts o' names. So my blood being reg'larly up, I first give him two or three for himself, and then two or three more to hand over to the man with the red nose, and walked off. I wish you could ha' heard how the women screamed, Sammy, ven they picked up the shepherd from under the table--Hallo! here's the governor, the size of life."
As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered the yard.
"Fine mornin', sir," said Mr. Weller senior.
"Beautiful indeed," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Beautiful indeed," echoed a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at the same moment as Mr. Pickwick. "Going to Ipswich, sir?"
"I am," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"Extraordinary coincidence. So am I."
Mr. Pickwick bowed.
"Going outside?" said the red-haired man.
Mr. Pickwick bowed again.
"Bless my soul, how remarkable--I am going outside, too," said the red-haired man: "we are positively going together." And the red-haired man, who was an important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken personage, with a bird-like habit of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as if he had made one of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom.
"I am happy in the prospect of your company, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah," said the new-comer, "it's a good thing for both of us, isn't it? Company, you see--company is--is--it's a very different thing from solitude--ain't it?"
"There's no denying that 'ere," said Mr. Weller, joining in the conversation, with an affable smile. "That's what I call a self-evident proposition, as the dog's-meat man said, when the housemaid told him he warn't a gentleman."
"Ah," said the red-haired man, surveying Mr. Weller from head to foot with a supercilious look. "Friend of yours, sir?"
"Not exactly a friend," replied Mr. Pickwick in a low tone. "The fact is, he is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties; for, between ourselves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him."
"Ah," said the red-haired man, "that, you see, is a matter of taste. I am not fond of anything original; I don't like it; don't see the necessity for it. What's your name, sir?"
"Here is my card, sir," replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the abruptness of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger.
"Ah," said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book, "Pickwick; very good. I like to know a man's name, it saves so much trouble. That's my card, sir, Magnus, you will perceive, sir--Magnus is my name. It's rather a good name, I think, sir?"
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