"Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?" inquired his companion, as they walked towards High Street.
"Once," replied Sam.
"What did you think of 'em, sir?"
"I thought they wos particklery unpleasant," replied Sam.
"Ah," said Mr. John Smauker, "you disliked the killibeate taste, perhaps?"
"I don't know much about that 'ere," said Sam. "I thought they'd a wery strong flavour o' warm flat irons."
"That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller," observed Mr. John Smauker, contemptuously.
"Well, if it is, it's a wery inexpressive word, that's all," said Sam. "It may be, but I ain't much in the chimical line myself, so I can't say." And here, to the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Weller," said Mr. John Smauker, agonized at the exceedingly ungenteel sound, "Will you take my arm?"
"Thankee, you're wery good, but I won't deprive you of it," replied Sam. "I've rayther a way o' puttin' my hands in my pockets, if it's all the same to you." As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word, and whistled far louder than before.
"This way," said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned down a bye street; we shall soon be there."
"Shall we?" said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close vicinity to the select footmen of Bath.
"Yes," said Mr. John Smauker. "Don't be alarmed, Mr. Weller."
"Oh no," said Sam.
"You'll see some very handsome uniforms, Mr. Weller," continued Mr. John Smauker; "and perhaps you'll find some of the gentlemen rather high at first, you know, but they'll soon come round."
"That's wery kind on 'em," replied Sam.
"And you know," resumed Mr. John Smauker, with an air
