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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 679/859
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‘
No
,
they
ain
’
t
,
’
replied
Sam
expressively
.
‘
They
may
be
put
on
,
Mr
.
Weller
,
’
said
Job
.
‘
I
know
they
may
,
’
said
Sam
;
‘
some
people
,
indeed
,
has
’
em
always
ready
laid
on
,
and
can
pull
out
the
plug
wenever
they
likes
.
’
‘
Yes
,
’
replied
Job
;
‘
but
these
sort
of
things
are
not
so
easily
counterfeited
,
Mr
.
Weller
,
and
it
is
a
more
painful
process
to
get
them
up
.
’
As
he
spoke
,
he
pointed
to
his
sallow
,
sunken
cheeks
,
and
,
drawing
up
his
coat
sleeve
,
disclosed
an
arm
which
looked
as
if
the
bone
could
be
broken
at
a
touch
,
so
sharp
and
brittle
did
it
appear
,
beneath
its
thin
covering
of
flesh
.
‘
Wot
have
you
been
a
-
doin
’
to
yourself
?
’
said
Sam
,
recoiling
.
‘
Nothing
,
’
replied
Job
.
‘
Nothin
’
!
’
echoed
Sam
.
‘
I
have
been
doin
’
nothing
for
many
weeks
past
,
’
said
Job
;
and
eating
and
drinking
almost
as
little
.
’
Sam
took
one
comprehensive
glance
at
Mr
.
Trotter
’
s
thin
face
and
wretched
apparel
;
and
then
,
seizing
him
by
the
arm
,
commenced
dragging
him
away
with
great
violence
.
‘
Where
are
you
going
,
Mr
.
Weller
?
’
said
Job
,
vainly
struggling
in
the
powerful
grasp
of
his
old
enemy
.
‘
Come
on
,
’
said
Sam
;
‘
come
on
!
’
He
deigned
no
further
explanation
till
they
reached
the
tap
,
and
then
called
for
a
pot
of
porter
,
which
was
speedily
produced
.
