"I'm sorry for it," said Lowten. "Never mind. I'll run out presently, and get a bottle of soda. Don't I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr. Pickwick?"
The individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten's eyes from a distance, and expressed his opinion that no unusual queerness was perceptible in those features.
"I'm glad of it," said Lowten. "We were keeping it up pretty tolerably at the Stump last night, and I'm rather out of sorts this morning. Perker's been about that business of yours, by the bye."
"What business?" inquired Mr. Pickwick. "Mrs. Bardell's costs?"
"No, I don't mean that," replied Mr. Lowten. "About getting that customer that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the bill discounter for, on your account—to get him out of the Fleet, you know—about getting him to Demerara."
"Oh? Mr. Jingle?" said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. "Yes. Well?"
"Well, it's all arranged," said Lowten, mending his pen. "The agent at Liverpool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in business, and he would be glad to take him on your recommendation."
"That's well," said Mr. Pickwick. "I am delighted to hear it."
"But I say," resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to making a fresh split, "what a soft chap that other is!"
"Which other?
"Why, that servant, or friend, or whatever he is; you know; Trotter."
"Ah?" said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. "I always thought him the reverse."
"Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him," replied Lowten, "it only shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to Demerara, too?"
