Pickwick. 'We--we're--all
right.--I say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'
'I should think so,' replied the jolly host.--'My dears, here's my
friend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon
--little visit.'
'Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?' inquired
Emily, with great anxiety.
'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' replied the stranger. 'Cricket
dinner--glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good
--very good--wine, ma'am--wine.'
'It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken
voice. 'It was the salmon.' (Somehow or other, it never is the
wine, in these cases.)
'Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?' inquired Emma. 'Two
of the boys will carry the gentlemen upstairs.'
'I won't go to bed,' said Mr. Winkle firmly.
'No living boy shall carry me,' said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and
he went on smiling as before.
'Hurrah!' gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.
'Hurrah!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing
it on the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle
of the kitchen. At this humorous feat he laughed outright.
'Let's--have--'nother--bottle,'cried Mr. Winkle, commencing
in a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one.
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