"I'll follow him," said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table.
"I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-morrow, sir," said Mr. Weller the elder, "from the Bull in Whitechapel; and if you really mean go, you'd better go with me."
"So we had," said Mr. Pickwick; " "very true; true; I can write to Bury, and tell them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don't hurry away, Mr. Weller; won't you take anything?"
"You're wery good, sir," replied Mr. W., stopping short; "perhaps a small glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, sir, wouldn't be amiss."
"Certainly not," replied Mr. Pickwick. "A glass of brandy here!" The brandy was brought: and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick, and nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small thimble-full.
"Well done, father," said Sam, "take care, old fellow, or you'll have a touch of your old complaint, the gout."
"I've found a sov'rin' cure for that, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, setting down the glass.
"A sovereign cure for the gout," said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his note-book—"what is it?"
"The gout, sir," replied Mr. Weller, "the gout is a complaint as arises from too much ease and comfort. If ever you're attacked with the gout, sir, jist you marry a widder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent notion of usin' it, and you'll never have the gout agin. It's a capital prescription, sir. I takes it reg'lar, and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity." Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired.
"Well, what do you think of what your father says, Sam?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, with a smile.
"Think, sir!" replied Mr. Weller; "why, I think he's the
