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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 315/859
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‘
I
don
’
t
understand
you
,
Sam
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
What
I
mean
,
sir
,
’
said
Sam
,
‘
is
,
that
the
poorer
a
place
is
,
the
greater
call
there
seems
to
be
for
oysters
.
Look
here
,
sir
;
here
’
s
a
oyster
-
stall
to
every
half
-
dozen
houses
.
The
street
’
s
lined
vith
’
em
.
Blessed
if
I
don
’
t
think
that
ven
a
man
’
s
wery
poor
,
he
rushes
out
of
his
lodgings
,
and
eats
oysters
in
reg
’
lar
desperation
.
’
‘
To
be
sure
he
does
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
senior
;
‘
and
it
’
s
just
the
same
vith
pickled
salmon
!
’
‘
Those
are
two
very
remarkable
facts
,
which
never
occurred
to
me
before
,
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
The
very
first
place
we
stop
at
,
I
’
ll
make
a
note
of
them
.
’
By
this
time
they
had
reached
the
turnpike
at
Mile
End
;
a
profound
silence
prevailed
until
they
had
got
two
or
three
miles
farther
on
,
when
Mr
.
Weller
,
senior
,
turning
suddenly
to
Mr
.
Pickwick
,
said
—
‘
Wery
queer
life
is
a
pike
-
keeper
’
s
,
sir
.
’
‘
A
what
?
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
A
pike
-
keeper
.
’
‘
What
do
you
mean
by
a
pike
-
keeper
?
’
inquired
Mr
.
Peter
Magnus
.
