'Yes, sir--they have been dining here, I think, sir.'
'Why, damn their audacity, so they have,' said Captain
Boldwig, as the crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the
grass met his eye. 'They have actually been devouring their food
here. I wish I had the vagabonds here!' said the captain, clenching
the thick stick.
'I wish I had the vagabonds here,' said the captain wrathfully.
'Beg your pardon, sir,' said Wilkins, 'but--'
'But what? Eh?' roared the captain; and following the timid
glance of Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheel-barrow and
Mr. Pickwick.
'Who are you, you rascal?' said the captain, administering
several pokes to Mr. Pickwick's body with the thick stick.
'What's your name?'
'Cold punch,' murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sank to sleep again.
'What?' demanded Captain Boldwig.
No reply.
'What did he say his name was?' asked the captain.
'Punch, I think, sir,' replied Wilkins.
'That's his impudence--that's his confounded impudence,' said
Captain Boldwig. 'He's only feigning to be asleep now,' said the
captain, in a high passion. 'He's drunk; he's a drunken plebeian.
Wheel him away, Wilkins, wheel him away directly.
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