Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which Mr. Samuel Weller begins to devote his Energies to the Return Match between himself and Mr.

           

           ‘Hollo,youSir!’shoutedSamfiercely.

           Thestrangerstopped.

           ‘Hollo!’repeatedSam,stillmoregruffly.

           Themanwiththehorriblefacelooked,withthegreatestsurprise,upthecourt,anddownthecourt,andinatthewindowsofthehouseseverywherebutatSamWellerandtookanotherstepforward,whenhewasbroughttoagainbyanothershout.

           ‘Hollo,yousir!’saidSam,forthethirdtime.

           Therewasnopretendingtomistakewherethevoicecamefromnow,sothestranger,havingnootherresource,atlastlookedSamWellerfullintheface.

           ‘Itwon’tdo,JobTrotter,’saidSam.‘Come!Noneo’that‘erenonsense.Youain’tsowery‘andsomethatyoucanaffordtothrowavaymanyo’yourgoodlooks.Bringthem‘ereeyeso’yournbackintotheirproperplaces,orI’llknock’emoutofyourhead.D’yehear?’

           AsMr.Wellerappearedfullydisposedtoactuptothespiritofthisaddress,Mr.Trottergraduallyallowedhisfacetoresumeitsnaturalexpression;andthengivingastartofjoy,exclaimed,‘WhatdoIsee?Mr.Walker!’

           ‘Ah,’repliedSam.‘You’rewerygladtoseeme,ain’tyou?’

           ‘Glad!’exclaimedJobTrotter;‘oh,Mr.Walker,ifyouhadbutknownhowIhavelookedforwardtothismeeting!Itistoomuch,Mr.Walker;Icannotbearit,indeedIcannot.’Andwiththesewords,Mr.

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