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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 223/859
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‘
And
a
wery
good
name
it
is
;
only
one
I
know
that
ain
’
t
got
a
nickname
to
it
.
What
’
s
the
other
name
?
’
‘
Trotter
,
’
said
the
stranger
.
‘
What
is
yours
?
’
Sam
bore
in
mind
his
master
’
s
caution
,
and
replied
—
‘
My
name
’
s
Walker
;
my
master
’
s
name
’
s
Wilkins
.
Will
you
take
a
drop
o
’
somethin
’
this
mornin
’
,
Mr
.
Trotter
?
’
Mr
.
Trotter
acquiesced
in
this
agreeable
proposal
;
and
having
deposited
his
book
in
his
coat
pocket
,
accompanied
Mr
.
Weller
to
the
tap
,
where
they
were
soon
occupied
in
discussing
an
exhilarating
compound
,
formed
by
mixing
together
,
in
a
pewter
vessel
,
certain
quantities
of
British
Hollands
and
the
fragrant
essence
of
the
clove
.
‘
And
what
sort
of
a
place
have
you
got
?
’
inquired
Sam
,
as
he
filled
his
companion
’
s
glass
,
for
the
second
time
.
‘
Bad
,
’
said
Job
,
smacking
his
lips
,
‘
very
bad
.
’
‘
You
don
’
t
mean
that
?
’
said
Sam
.
‘
I
do
,
indeed
.
Worse
than
that
,
my
master
’
s
going
to
be
married
.
’
