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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 544/859
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‘
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
,
agonised
at
the
exceeding
ungenteel
sound
,
‘
will
you
take
my
arm
?
’
‘
Thank
’
ee
,
you
’
re
wery
good
,
but
I
won
’
t
deprive
you
of
it
,
’
replied
Sam
.
‘
I
’
ve
rayther
a
way
o
’
putting
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
by
-
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
.
