It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle presents an apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. With no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the utterance of divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed respiration, he fulfils his share of the porterage and the benevolent old gentleman is deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the Sol's Arms.
"Oh, Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breathless, from an arm-chair. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Oh, my aches and pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling, scrambling poll-parrot! Sit down!"

It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle has an apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. But at last the benevolent old gentleman is deposited in the parlour of the Sol's Arms.
"Oh, Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed, breathless, in an arm-chair. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling poll-parrot! Sit down!"
