Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

How Mr. Winkle, when he stepped out of the Frying-pan, walked gently and comfortably into the Fire

           

           ‘Noneintheleast,ifyoucanreconcileittoyourconscience,’repliedBobSawyer,tossingoff,ashespoke,aglassoftheliquorwithgreatrelish.‘Ben,thepipkin!’

           Mr.BenjaminAllendrewforth,fromthesamehiding-place,asmallbrasspipkin,whichBobSawyerobservedhepridedhimselfupon,particularlybecauseitlookedsobusiness-like.Thewaterintheprofessionalpipkinhavingbeenmadetoboil,incourseoftime,byvariouslittleshovelfulsofcoal,whichMr.BobSawyertookoutofapracticablewindow-seat,labelled‘SodaWater,’Mr.Winkleadulteratedhisbrandy;andtheconversationwasbecominggeneral,whenitwasinterruptedbytheentranceintotheshopofaboy,inasobergrayliveryandagold-lacedhat,withasmallcoveredbasketunderhisarm,whomMr.BobSawyerimmediatelyhailedwith,‘Tom,youvagabond,comehere.’

           Theboypresentedhimselfaccordingly.

           ‘You’vebeenstoppingto"over"allthepostsinBristol,youidleyoungscamp!’saidMr.BobSawyer.

           ‘No,sir,Ihaven’t,’repliedtheboy.

           ‘Youhadbetternot!’saidMr.BobSawyer,withathreateningaspect.‘Whodoyousupposewilleveremployaprofessionalman,whentheyseehisboyplayingatmarblesinthegutter,orflyingthegarterinthehorse-road?Haveyounofeelingforyourprofession,yougroveller?Didyouleaveallthemedicine?’‘Yes,Sir.

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