"That's a clincher," said Mr. Weller, aside.
"Then this garden," resumed Mr. Pickwick. I to get into it?"
"The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up."
"My servant will give me a leg up," repeated Mr. Pickwick, mechanically. "You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of?
"You cannot mistake it, sir; it's the only one that opens into the garden. Tap at it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly."
"I don't like the plan," said Mr. Pickwick; "but as I see no other, and as the happiness of this young lady's whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to be there."
Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick's innate goodfeeling involve him in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof.
"What is the name of the house?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
"Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of the town; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name on a brass plate on the gate.
"I know it," said Mr. Pickwick. I observed it once before, when I was in this town. You may depend upon me."
Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust a guinea into his hand.
"You're a fine fellow," said Mr. Pickwick, "and I admire your goodness of heart. No thanks. Remember—eleven o'clock."
"There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir," replied Job Trotter. With these words he left the room, followed by Sam.
"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."
