the man in the rough coat, in an imperious
tone, attempting at the same time to push his way past.

'Now, Sir, wot's the matter?' replied Sam, returning the push with
compound interest.

'Come, none of this, my man; this won't do with me,' said the owner of
the rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. 'Here, Smouch!'

'Well, wot's amiss here?' growled the man in the brown coat, who had
been gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue.

'Only some insolence of this young man's,' said the principal, giving
Sam another push.

'Come, none o' this gammon,' growled Smouch, giving him another, and a
harder one.

This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced
Mr. Smouch to produce; for while Sam, anxious to return the compliment,
was grinding that gentleman's body against the door-post, the principal
crept past, and made his way to the bar, whither Sam, after bandying a
few epithetical remarks with Mr. Smouch, followed at once.

'Good-morning, my dear,' said the principal, addressing the young lady
at the bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility; 'which
is Mr. Pickwick's room, my dear?'

'Show him up,' said the barmaid to a waiter, without deigning another
look at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry.

The waiter led the way upstairs as he was desired, and the man in the
rough coat followed, with Sam behind him, who, in his progress up the
staircase, indulged in sundry gestures indicative of supreme contempt
and defiance, to the unspeakable gratification of the servants and other
lookers-on. Mr. Smouch, who was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained
below, and expectorated in the passage.

Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by
Sam, entered the room. The noise they made, in so doing, awoke him.

'Shaving-water, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains.

'Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,' said the visitor, drawing one of
them back from the bed's head. 'I've got an execution against you, at
the suit of Bardell.--Here's the warrant.--Common Pleas.--Here's my
card. I suppose you'll come over to my house.' Giving Mr. Pickwick a
friendly tap on the shoulder, the sheriff's officer (for such he was)
threw his card on the counterpane, and pulled a gold toothpick from his
waistcoat pocket.

'Namby's the name,' said the sheriff's deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his
spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to