Chapter: For two days after the _dejeune _at Mrs. Hunter's, the Pickwickians
remained at Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some
intelligence from their revered leader. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass
were once again left to their own means of amusement; for Mr. Winkle, in
compliance with a most pressing invitation, continued to reside at Mr.
Pott's house, and to devote his time to the companionship of his amiable
lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself wanting to
complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his
speculations for the public weal and the destruction of the
_Independent_, it was not the habit of that great man to descend from
his mental pinnacle to the humble level of ordinary minds. On this
occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to any follower of
Mr. Pickwick's, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his pedestal, and
walked upon the ground, benignly adapting his remarks to the
comprehension of the herd, and seeming in outward form, if not in
spirit, to be one of them.

Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character
towards Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable
surprise was depicted on the countenance of the latter gentleman, when,
as he was sitting alone in the breakfast-room, the door was hastily
thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the entrance of Mr. Pott, who,
stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside his proffered
hand, ground his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was about
to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice--

'Serpent!'

'Sir!' exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair.

'Serpent, Sir,' repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly
depressing it: 'I said, serpent, sir--make the most of it.'

When you have parted with a man at two o'clock in the morning, on terms
of the utmost good-fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past
nine, and greets you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude
that something of an unpleasant nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr.
Winkle thought. He returned Mr. Pott's gaze of stone, and in compliance
with that gentleman's request, proceeded to make the most he could of
the 'serpent.' The most, however, was nothing at all; so, after a
profound silence of some minutes' duration, he said,--

'Serpent, Sir! Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, Sir?--this is
pleasantry.'

'Pleasantry, sir!' exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative
of a strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal teapot at the head of the
visitor. 'Pleasantry, sir!--But--no, I will be calm; I will be calm,
Sir;' in proof of his calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and
foamed at the mouth.

'My dear sir,' interposed Mr. Winkle.

'_DEAR _Sir!' replied Pott. 'How dare you address me, as dear Sir, Sir?
How dare you look me in the face and do it, sir?'

'Well, Sir, if you come to that,' responded Mr. Winkle, 'how dare you
look me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir?'

'Because you are one,' replied Mr. Pott.

'Prove it, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle warmly. 'Prove it.'

A malignant scowl passed over the profound face of the editor, as he
drew from his pocket the _Independent_ of that morning; and laying his
finger on a particular paragraph, threw the journal across the table to
Mr. Winkle.

That gentleman took it up, and read as follows:--

'Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on
the recent election for this borough, has presumed to violate the
hallowed sanctity of private life, and to refer in a manner not to be
misunderstood, to the personal affairs of our late candidate--aye, and
notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, our future member, Mr.
Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean? What would the
ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of social
intercourse, were to raise the curtain which happily conceals _His_
private life from general ridicule, not to say from general execration?
What, if we were even to point out, and comment on, facts and
circumstances, which are publicly notorious, and beheld by every one but
our mole-eyed contemporary--what if we were to print the following
effusion, which we received while we were writing the commencement of
this article, from a talented fellow-townsman and correspondent?


'"LINES TO A BRASS POT

'"Oh Pott! if you'd known How false she'd have grown, When you heard the
marriage bells tinkle; You'd have done then, I vow, What you cannot help
now,


'What,' said Mr. Pott solemnly--'what rhymes to "tinkle," villain?'

'What rhymes to tinkle?' said Mrs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment
forestalled the reply. 'What rhymes to tinkle? Why, Winkle, I should
conceive.' Saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed
Pickwickian, and extended her hand towards him. The agitated young man
would have accepted it, in his confusion, had not Pott indignantly
interposed.

'Back, ma'am--back!' said the editor. 'Take his hand before my very
face!'

'Mr. P.!' said his astonished lady.

'Wretched woman, look here,' exclaimed the husband. 'Look here, ma'am--
"Lines to a Brass Pot." "Brass Pot"; that's me, ma'am. "False _she'd_
have grown"; that's you, ma'am--you.' With this ebullition of rage,
which was not unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the
expression of his wife's face, Mr. Pott dashed the current number of the
Eatanswill _Independent_ at her feet.

'Upon my word, Sir,' said the astonished Mrs. Pott, stooping to pick up
the paper. 'Upon my word, Sir!'

Mr. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a
desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming
unscrewed again.

There appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, 'Upon my
word, sir,' when it comes to be read; but the tone of voice in which it
was delivered, and the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear
reference to some revenge to be thereafter visited upon the head of
Pott, produced their effect upon him. The most unskilful observer could
have detected in his troubled countenance, a readiness to resign his
Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have consented to
stand in them at that moment.

Mrs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself
at full length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the
heels of her shoes, in a manner which could leave no doubt of the
propriety of her feelings on the occasion.

'My dear,' said the terrified Pott, 'I didn't say I believed it;--I--'
but the unfortunate man's voice was drowned in the screaming of his
partner.

'Mrs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma'am, to compose yourself,'
said Mr. Winkle; but the shrieks and tappings were louder, and more
frequent than ever.

'My dear,' said Mr. Pott, 'I'm very sorry. If you won't consider your
own health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the
house.' But the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently
the screams poured forth.

Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott's person was a
bodyguard of one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to
preside over her toilet, but who rendered herself useful in a variety of
ways, and in none more so than in the particular department of
constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish and
inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams
reached this young lady's ears in due course, and brought her into the
room with a speed which threatened to derange, materially, the very
exquisite arrangement of her cap and ringlets.

'Oh, my dear, dear mistress!' exclaimed the bodyguard, kneeling
frantically by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. 'Oh, my dear
mistress, what is the matter?'

'Your master--your brutal master,' murmured the patient.

Pott was evidently giving way.

'It's a shame,' said the bodyguard reproachfully. 'I know he'll be the
death on you, ma'am. Poor dear thing!'

He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack.

'Oh, don't leave me--don't leave me, Goodwin,' murmured Mrs. Pott,
clutching at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk.
'You're the only person that's kind to me, Goodwin.'

At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of
her own, and shed tears copiously.

'Never, ma'am--never,' said Goodwin. 'Oh, sir, you should be careful--
you should indeed; you don't know what harm you may do missis; you'll be
sorry for it one day, I know--I've always said so.'

The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing.

'Goodwin,' said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice.

'Ma'am,' said Goodwin.

'If you only knew how I have loved that man--'

Don't distress yourself by recollecting it, ma'am,' said the bodyguard.

Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him.

'And now,' sobbed Mrs. Pott, 'now, after all, to be treated in this way;
to be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that
party almost a stranger. But I will not submit to it! Goodwin,'
continued Mrs. Pott, raising herself in the arms of her attendant, 'my
brother, the lieutenant, shall interfere. I'll be separated, Goodwin!'

'It would certainly serve him right, ma'am,' said Goodwin.

Whatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr.
Pott's mind, he forbore to give utterance to them, and contented himself
by saying, with great humility:--

'My dear, will you hear me?'

A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more
hysterical, requested to be informed why she was ever born, and required
sundry other pieces of information of a similar description.

'My dear,' remonstrated Mr. Pott, 'do not give way to these sensitive
feelings. I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my
dear--impossible. I was only angry, my dear--I may say outrageous--with
the _Independent_ people for daring to insert it; that's all.' Mr. Pott
cast an imploring look at the innocent cause of the mischief, as if to
entreat him to say nothing about the serpent.

'And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress?' inquired
Mr. Winkle, gaining courage as he saw Pott losing it.

'Oh, Goodwin,' observed Mrs. Pott, 'does he mean to horsewhip the editor
of the _Independent_--does he, Goodwin?'

'Hush, hush, ma'am; pray keep yourself quiet,' replied the bodyguard. 'I
dare say he will, if you wish it, ma'am.'

'Certainly,' said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going
off again. 'Of course I shall.'

'When, Goodwin--when?' said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going
off.

'Immediately, of course,' said Mr. Pott; 'before the day is out.'

'Oh, Goodwin,' resumed Mrs. Pott, 'it's the only way of meeting the
slander, and setting me right with the world.'

'Certainly, ma'am,' replied Goodwin. 'No man as is a man, ma'am, could
refuse to do it.'

So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once more
that he would do it; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of
having ever been suspected, that she was half a dozen times on the very
verge of a relapse, and most unquestionably would have gone off, had it
not been for the indefatigable efforts of the assiduous Goodwin, and
repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered Pott; and finally,
when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed down to his
proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast.

'You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay
here, Mr. Winkle?' said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her
tears.

'I hope not,' said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his
visitor would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was
raising to his lips at the moment, and so terminate his stay
effectually.

'I hope not.'

'You are very good,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but a letter has been received
from Mr. Pickwick--so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was
brought up to my bedroom door, this morning--in which he requests us to
join him at Bury to-day; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.'

'But you will come back?' said Mrs. Pott.

'Oh, certainly,' replied Mr. Winkle.

'You are quite sure?' said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her
visitor.

'Quite,' responded Mr. Winkle.

The breakfast passed off in silence, for each of the party was brooding
over his, or her, own personal grievances. Mrs. Pott was regretting the
loss of a beau; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the _Independent_;
Mr. Winkle his having innocently placed himself in so awkward a
situation. Noon approached, and after many adieux and promises to
return, he tore himself away.

'If he ever comes back, I'll poison him,' thought Mr. Pott, as he turned
into the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts.

'If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,'
thought Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, 'I shall
deserve to be horsewhipped myself--that's all.'

His friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half an hour
they were proceeding on their journey, along the road over which Mr.
Pickwick and Sam had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have
already said something, we do not feel called upon to extract Mr.
Snodgrass's poetical and beautiful description.

Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them,
and by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr.
Pickwick, where, to the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr.
Snodgrass, and the no small embarrassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old
Wardle and Trundle.

'How are you?' said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman's hand. 'Don't hang
back, or look sentimental about it; it can't be helped, old fellow. For
her sake, I wish you'd had her; for your own, I'm very glad you have
not. A young fellow like you will do better one of these days, eh?' With
this conclusion, Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed
heartily.

'Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?' said the old gentleman,
shaking hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. 'I
have just been telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at
Christmas. We're going to have a wedding--a real wedding this time.'

'A wedding!' exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale.

'Yes, a wedding. But don't be frightened,' said the good-humoured old
man; 'it's only Trundle there, and Bella.'

'Oh, is that all?' said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt
which had fallen heavily on his breast. 'Give you joy, Sir. How is Joe?'

'Very well,' replied the old gentleman. 'Sleepy as ever.'

'And your mother, and the clergyman, and all of 'em?'

'Quite well.'

'Where,' said Mr. Tupman, with an effort--'where is--_she_, Sir?' and he
turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand.

'_She_!' said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. 'Do
you mean my single relative--eh?'

Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the
disappointed Rachael.

'Oh, she's gone away,' said the old gentleman. 'She's living at a
relation's, far enough off. She couldn't bear to see the girls, so I let
her go. But come! Here's the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride.
I am, without any ride at all; so let us fall to.'

Ample justice was done to the meal; and when they were seated round the
table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense
horror and indignation of his followers, related the adventure he had
undergone, and the success which had attended the base artifices of the
diabolical Jingle.

'And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,' said Mr.
Pickwick, in conclusion, 'renders me lame at this moment.'

'I, too, have had something of an adventure,' said Mr. Winkle, with a
smile; and, at the request of Mr. Pickwick, he detailed the malicious
libel of the Eatanswill _Independent_, and the consequent excitement of
their friend, the editor.

Mr. Pickwick's brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed
it, and, when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence.
Mr. Pickwick struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and
spoke as follows:--

'Is it not a wonderful circumstance,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'that we seem
destined to enter no man's house without involving him in some degree of
trouble? Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than
that, the blackness of heart--that I should say so!--of my followers,
that, beneath whatever roof they locate, they disturb the peace of mind
and happiness of some confiding female? Is it not, I say--'

Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had
not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his
eloquent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took
off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had
recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said--

'What have you there, Sam?'

'Called at the post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has
laid there for two days,' replied Mr. Weller. 'It's sealed vith a vafer,
and directed in round hand.'

'I don't know this hand,' said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. 'Mercy
on us! what's this? It must be a jest; it--it--can't be true.'

'What's the matter?' was the general inquiry.

'Nobody dead, is there?' said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr.
Pickwick's countenance.

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table,
and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a
look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold.

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the
following is a copy:--

Freeman's Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1827.

Bardell against Pickwick.

Sir,

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action
against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff
lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a
writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common
Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney
in London, who will accept service thereof.

We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson & Fogg.

Mr. Samuel Pickwick.

There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which
each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick,
that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr.
Tupman.

'Dodson and Fogg,' he repeated mechanically.

'Bardell and Pickwick,' said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

'Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,' murmured Mr. Winkle,
with an air of abstraction.

'It's a conspiracy,' said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power
of speech; 'a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys,
Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it;--she hasn't the heart
to do it;--she hasn't the case to do it. Ridiculous--ridiculous.'

Of her heart,' said Wardle, with a smile, 'you should certainly be the
best judge. I don't wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say
that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us
can be.'

'It's a vile attempt to extort money,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'I hope it is,' said Wardle, with a short, dry cough.

'Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger
would address his landlady?' continued Mr. Pickwick, with great
vehemence. 'Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here--'

'Except on one occasion,' said Mr. Tupman.

Mr. Pickwick changed colour.

'Ah,' said Mr. Wardle. 'Well, that's important. There was nothing
suspicious then, I suppose?'

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. 'Why,' said he, 'there was
nothing suspicious; but--I don't know how it happened, mind--she
certainly was reclining in his arms.'

'Gracious powers!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the
scene in question struck forcibly upon him; 'what a dreadful instance of
the force of circumstances! So she was--so she was.'

'And our friend was soothing her anguish,' said Mr. Winkle, rather
maliciously.

'So I was,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I don't deny it. So I was.'

'Hollo!' said Wardle; 'for a case in which there's nothing suspicious,
this looks rather queer--eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog--sly dog!' and he
laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again.

'What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick,
resting his chin upon his hands. 'Winkle--Tupman--I beg your pardon for
the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of
circumstances, and I the greatest.' With this apology Mr. Pickwick
buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a
regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the
company.

'I'll have it explained, though,' said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head
and hammering the table. 'I'll see this Dodson and Fogg! I'll go to
London to-morrow.'

'Not to-morrow,' said Wardle; 'you're too lame.'

'Well, then, next day.'

'Next day is the first of September, and you're pledged to ride out with
us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds at all events, and to meet
us at lunch, if you don't take the field.'

'Well, then, the day after,' said Mr. Pickwick; 'Thursday.--Sam!'

'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.

'Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself
and me.'

'Wery well, Sir.'

Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his
hands in his pocket and his eyes fixed on the ground.

'Rum feller, the hemperor,' said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the
street. 'Think o' his makin' up to that 'ere Mrs. Bardell--vith a little
boy, too! Always the vay vith these here old 'uns howsoever, as is such
steady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd ha' done it, though--I
didn't think he'd ha' done it!' Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel
Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.


The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal
comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been
making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, no doubt,
as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a
young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all
the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his
levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air of a bird
of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom,
basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and
a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow
affecting: let us proceed.

In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning--so
fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an
English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and
moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich
green; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled
with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was
cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, the
hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage
gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint,
sparkled, in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything
bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet faded
from the die.

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three
Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr.
Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver,
pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, raw-
boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing
a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

'I say,' whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps,
'they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags,
do they?'

'Fill them!' exclaimed old Wardle. 'Bless you, yes! You shall fill one,
and I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of our
shooting-jackets will hold as much more.'

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this
observation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remained
in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, they stood a
considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

'Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,' said Wardle, caressing
the dogs. 'Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?'

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some
surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his
coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr.
Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid of it--as there is no
earthly reason to doubt he really was.

'My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,'
said Wardle, noticing the look. 'Live and learn, you know. They'll be
good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though;
he has had some practice.'

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of
the compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun,
in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must
inevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

'You mustn't handle your piece in that 'ere way, when you come to have
the charge in it, Sir,' said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; 'or I'm damned
if you won't make cold meat of some on us.'

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, and in so
doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contact with Mr.
Weller's head.

'Hollo!' said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and
rubbing his temple. 'Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fill
one o' them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.'

Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to
look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned
majestically.

'Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?' inquired
Wardle.

'Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o'clock, Sir.'

'That's not Sir Geoffrey's land, is it?'

'No, Sir; but it's close by it. It's Captain Boldwig's land; but
there'll be nobody to interrupt us, and there's a fine bit of turf
there.'

'Very well,' said old Wardle. 'Now the sooner we're off the better. Will
you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?'

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more
especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle's life and
limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn
back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore, with
a very rueful air that he replied--

'Why, I suppose I must.'

'Ain't the gentleman a shot, Sir?' inquired the long gamekeeper.

'No,' replied Wardle; 'and he's lame besides.'

'I should very much like to go,' said Mr. Pickwick--'very much.'

There was a short pause of commiseration.

'There's a barrow t'other side the hedge,' said the boy. 'If the
gentleman's servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us,
and we could lift it over the stiles, and that.'

'The wery thing,' said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch
as he ardently longed to see the sport. 'The wery thing. Well said,
Smallcheek; I'll have it out in a minute.'

But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested
against the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a
barrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents.

It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper
having been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by
'punching' the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the
use of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party
set; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in
the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.

'Stop, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the first
field.

'What's the matter now?' said Wardle.

'I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another step,' said Mr.
Pickwick, resolutely, 'unless Winkle carries that gun of his in a
different manner.'

'How _am_ I to carry it?' said the wretched Winkle.

'Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,' replied Mr. Pickwick.

'It's so unsportsmanlike,' reasoned Winkle.

'I don't care whether it's unsportsmanlike or not,' replied Mr.
Pickwick; 'I am not going to be shot in a wheel-barrow, for the sake of
appearances, to please anybody.'

'I know the gentleman'll put that 'ere charge into somebody afore he's
done,' growled the long man.

'Well, well--I don't mind,' said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock
uppermost--'there.'

'Anythin' for a quiet life,' said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.

'Stop!' said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards farther.

'What now?' said Wardle.

'That gun of Tupman's is not safe: I know it isn't,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Eh? What! not safe?' said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.

'Not as you are carrying it,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am very sorry to
make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you
carry it as Winkle does his.'

'I think you had better, sir,' said the long gamekeeper, 'or you're
quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.'

Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the
position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs
marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal
funeral.

The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing
stealthily a single pace, stopped too.

'What's the matter with the dogs' legs?' whispered Mr. Winkle. 'How
queer they're standing.'

'Hush, can't you?' replied Wardle softly. 'Don't you see, they're making
a point?'

'Making a point!' said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected
to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious
animals were calling special attention to. 'Making a point! What are
they pointing at?'

'Keep your eyes open,' said Wardle, not heeding the question in the
excitement of the moment. 'Now then.'

There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if
he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns--the smoke
swept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.

'Where are they!' said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement,
turning round and round in all directions. 'Where are they? Tell me when
to fire. Where are they--where are they?'

'Where are they!' said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs
had deposited at his feet. 'Why, here they are.'

'No, no; I mean the others,' said the bewildered Winkle.

'Far enough off, by this time,' replied Wardle, coolly reloading his
gun.

'We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,' said
the long gamekeeper. 'If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he'll
just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.'

'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Mr. Weller.

'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower's confusion and
embarrassment.

'Sir.'

'Don't laugh.'

'Certainly not, Sir.' So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller
contorted his features from behind the wheel-barrow, for the exclusive
amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a
boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who
wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.

'Bravo, old fellow!' said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; 'you fired that time, at
all events.'

'Oh, yes,' replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. 'I let it off.'

'Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very
easy, ain't it?'

'Yes, it's very easy,' said Mr. Tupman. 'How it hurts one's shoulder,
though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small
firearms kicked so.'

'Ah,' said the old gentleman, smiling, 'you'll get used to it in time.
Now then--all ready--all right with the barrow there?'

'All right, Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.

'Come along, then.'

'Hold hard, Sir,' said Sam, raising the barrow.

'Aye, aye,' replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need
be.

'Keep that barrow back now,' cried Wardle, when it had been hoisted over
a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it
once more.

'All right, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, pausing.

'Now, Winkle,' said the old gentleman, 'follow me softly, and don't be
too late this time.'

'Never fear,' said Mr. Winkle. 'Are they pointing?'

'No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.' On they crept, and very quietly
they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very
intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the
most critical moment, over the boy's head, exactly in the very spot
where the tall man's brain would have been, had he been there instead.

'Why, what on earth did you do that for?' said old Wardle, as the birds
flew unharmed away.

'I never saw such a gun in my life,' replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at
the lock, as if that would do any good. 'It goes off of its own accord.
It _will _do it.'

'Will do it!' echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner.
'I wish it would kill something of its own accord.'

'It'll do that afore long, Sir,' observed the tall man, in a low,
prophetic voice.

'What do you mean by that observation, Sir?' inquired Mr. Winkle,
angrily.

'Never mind, Sir, never mind,' replied the long gamekeeper; 'I've no
family myself, sir; and this here boy's mother will get something
handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land. Load again, Sir,
load again.'

'Take away his gun,' cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken
at the long man's dark insinuations. 'Take away his gun, do you hear,
somebody?'

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, after
darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and
proceeded onwards with the rest.

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, that Mr.
Tupman's mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence and
deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no means
detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on all
matters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifully
observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, that
many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lights
of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them
to practice.

Mr. Tupman's process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was
extremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius,
he had at once observed that the two great points to be attained were--
first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and, secondly,
to do so, without danger to the bystanders--obviously, the best thing to
do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his
eyes firmly, and fire into the air.

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his
eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling, wounded, to the
ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his
invariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, and
grasped him warmly by the hand.

'Tupman,' said the old gentleman, 'you singled out that particular
bird?'

'No,' said Mr. Tupman--'no.'

'You did,' said Wardle. 'I saw you do it--I observed you pick him out--I
noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I will say this,
that the best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully.
You are an older hand at this than I thought you, Tupman; you have been
out before.'

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial,
that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary;
and from that time forth his reputation was established. It is not the
only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunate
circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without
producing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimes
expending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along
so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs
on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display of fancy-
shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibition of
firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a
failure. It is an established axiom, that 'every bullet has its billet.'
If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were
unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose
upon the world, and billeted nowhere.

'Well,' said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping
the streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; 'smoking day, isn't
it?'

'It is, indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick. The sun is tremendously hot, even
to me. I don't know how you must feel it.'

'Why,' said the old gentleman, 'pretty hot. It's past twelve, though.
You see that green hill there?'

'Certainly.'

'That's the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there's the boy
with the basket, punctual as clockwork!'

'So he is,' said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. 'Good boy, that. I'll
give him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.'

'Hold on, sir,' said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of
refreshments. 'Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious
life don't upset me, as the gen'l'm'n said to the driver when they was
a-carryin' him to Tyburn.' And quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr.
Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot him dexterously
out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpack it with the
utmost despatch.

'Weal pie,' said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables
on the grass. 'Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as
made it, and is quite sure it ain't kittens; and arter all though,
where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery piemen
themselves don't know the difference?'

'Don't they, Sam?' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Not they, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. 'I lodged in the
same house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was--reg'lar
clever chap, too--make pies out o' anything, he could. "What a number o'
cats you keep, Mr. Brooks," says I, when I'd got intimate with him.
"Ah," says he, "I do--a good many," says he, "You must be wery fond o'
cats," says I. "Other people is," says he, a-winkin' at me; "they ain't
in season till the winter though," says he. "Not in season!" says I.
"No," says he, "fruits is in, cats is out." "Why, what do you mean?"
says I. "Mean!" says he. "That I'll never be a party to the combination
o' the butchers, to keep up the price o' meat," says he. "Mr. Weller,"
says he, a-squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my ear--"don't
mention this here agin--but it's the seasonin' as does it. They're all
made o' them noble animals," says he, a-pointin' to a wery nice little
tabby kitten, "and I seasons 'em for beefsteak, weal or kidney, 'cording
to the demand. And more than that," says he, "I can make a weal a beef-
steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on 'em a mutton, at a
minute's notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wary!"'

'He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,' said Mr.
Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

'Just was, sir,' replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of
emptying the basket, 'and the pies was beautiful. Tongue--, well that's
a wery good thing when it ain't a woman's. Bread--knuckle o' ham,
reg'lar picter--cold beef in slices, wery good. What's in them stone
jars, young touch-and-go?'

'Beer in this one,' replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple
of large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap--'cold
punch in t'other.'

'And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether,' said Mr.
Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfaction.
'Now, gen'l'm'n, "fall on," as the English said to the French when they
fixed bagginets.'

It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice
to the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller,
the long gamekeeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the
grass, at a little distance, and do good execution upon a decent
proportion of the viands. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to the
group, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow land, intersected with
luxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay spread out before
them.

'This is delightful--thoroughly delightful!' said Mr. Pickwick; the skin
of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure
to the sun.

'So it is--so it is, old fellow,' replied Wardle. 'Come; a glass of
punch!'

'With great pleasure,' said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose
countenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the
reply.

'Good,' said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. 'Very good. I'll take
another. Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen,' continued Mr. Pickwick,
still retaining his hold upon the jar, 'a toast. Our friends at Dingley
Dell.'

The toast was drunk with loud acclamations.

'I'll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,' said Mr.
Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. 'I'll put a
stuffed partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning at
a short distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it's
capital practice.'

'I know a gen'l'man, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, 'as did that, and begun at
two yards; but he never tried it on agin; for he blowed the bird right
clean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him
arterwards.'

'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'Sir,' replied Mr. Weller.

'Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for.'

'Cert'nly, sir.'

Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can
he was raising to his lips, with such exquisite facetiousness, that the
two boys went into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man
condescended to smile.

'Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch,' said Mr. Pickwick,
looking earnestly at the stone bottle; 'and the day is extremely warm,
and--Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?'

'With the greatest delight,' replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank that
glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any
orange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him;
and finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the
health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperatively called
upon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder, unknown.

This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon
Mr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles,
laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkled in
his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the exciting liquid,
rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strong desire to
recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and the attempt
proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with more glasses of
punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect; for, from
forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how to articulate
any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the
company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, and fast asleep,
simultaneously.

The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible
to awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place
whether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back
again, or to leave him where he was, until they should all be ready to
return. The latter course was at length decided on; and as the further
expedition was not to exceed an hour's duration, and as Mr. Weller
begged very hard to be one of the party, it was determined to leave Mr.
Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on their return. So
away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the
shade.

That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his
friends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening
had fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt;
always supposing that he had been suffered to remain there in peace. But
he was _not _suffered to remain there in peace. And this was what
prevented him.

Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and
blue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property,
did it in company with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a
gardener and sub-gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not
the stick) Captain Boldwig gave his orders with all due grandeur and
ferocity; for Captain Boldwig's wife's sister had married a marquis, and
the captain's house was a villa, and his land 'grounds,' and it was all
very high, and mighty, and great.

Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain
Boldwig, followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as
his size and importance would let him; and when he came near the oak
tree, Captain Boldwig paused and drew a long breath, and looked at the
prospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratified at
having him to take notice of it; and then he struck the ground
emphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener.

'Hunt,' said Captain Boldwig.

'Yes, Sir,' said the gardener.

'Roll this place to-morrow morning--do you hear, Hunt?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'And take care that you keep this place in good order--do you hear,
Hunt?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns,
and all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear,
Hunt; do you hear?'

'I'll not forget it, Sir.'

'I beg your pardon, Sir,' said the other man, advancing, with his hand
to his hat.

'Well, Wilkins, what's the matter with you?' said Captain Boldwig.

'I beg your pardon, sir--but I think there have been trespassers here
to-day.'

'Ha!' said the captain, scowling around him.

'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.'

Where shall I wheel him to, sir?' inquired Wilkins, with great timidity.

'Wheel him to the devil,' replied Captain Boldwig.

'Very well, sir,' said Wilkins.

'Stay,' said the captain.

Wilkins stopped accordingly.

'Wheel him,' said the captain--'wheel him to the pound; and let us see
whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not
bully me--he shall not bully me. Wheel him away.'

Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate;
and the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on
his walk.

Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they
returned, to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the
wheel-barrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountable
thing that was ever heard of. For a lame man to have got upon his legs
without any previous notice, and walked off, would have been most
extraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrow before
him, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searched
every nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted,
whistled, laughed, called--and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick
was not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived
at the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him.

Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safely
deposited therein, fast asleep in the wheel-barrow, to the immeasurable
delight and satisfaction not only of all the boys in the village, but
three-fourths of the whole population, who had gathered round, in
expectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had been
awakened by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joy
increased when, after a few indistinct cries of 'Sam!' he sat up in the
barrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces before
him.

A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and his
involuntary inquiry of 'What's the matter?' occasioned another, louder
than the first, if possible.

'Here's a game!' roared the populace.

'Where am I?' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.

'In the pound,' replied the mob.

'How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?'

Boldwig! Captain Boldwig!' was the only reply.

'Let me out,' cried Mr. Pickwick. 'Where's my servant? Where are my
friends?'

'You ain't got no friends. Hurrah!' Then there came a turnip, then a
potato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playful
disposition of the many-headed.

How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might
have suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving
swiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle
and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to
write it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick's side,
and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the
third and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle.

'Run to the justice's!' cried a dozen voices.

'Ah, run avay,' said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. 'Give my
compliments--Mr. Veller's compliments--to the justice, and tell him I've
spiled his beadle, and that, if he'll swear in a new 'un, I'll come back
again to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller.'

'I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for false
imprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,'
said Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town.

'We were trespassing, it seems,' said Wardle.

'I don't care,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'I'll bring the action.'

'No, you won't,' said Wardle.

'I will, by--' But as there was a humorous expression in Wardle's face,
Mr. Pickwick checked himself, and said, 'Why not?'

'Because,' said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, 'because they
might turn on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.'

Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face; the smile
extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general.
So, to keep up their good-humour, they stopped at the first roadside
tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy-and-water all round,
with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.

 Winkle, who has stayed on for a few days with the Potts, is confronted one morning with a raging Mr. Pott. A poem has appeared in the opposition paper that accuses Winkle of cuckolding Mr. Pott. Mrs. Pott throws a hysterical fit and pressures her husband into thrashing the editor, Mr. Slurk. Under the circumstances Winkle finds it expedient to leave, and he goes with Tupman and Snodgrass to meet Mr. Pickwick at Bury St. Edmunds. When they arrive, they find Mr. Wardle, who extends an invitation to the Pickwickians to visit him at Manor Farm over Christmas, when they will celebrate Trundle's wedding to Isabella Wardle. Upon learning of Winkle's difficulty at the Potts', Mr. Pickwick delivers a lecture to Tupman and Winkle on the impropriety of causing romantic turmoil when one is a guest. The lecture is interrupted when Mr. Pickwick receives a letter informing him that Mrs. Bardell is suing him for breach of promise. His companions gleefully remind him of the time they found him holding her in his arms, and he is horrified. Mr. Pickwick determines to return to London soon to get legal assistance. The following day, the Pickwickians, Wardle, and Trundle go hunting. Because Mr. Pickwick is still lame with rheumatism he has to be taken in a wheelbarrow. Both Winkle and Tupman are inexperienced and dangerous in handling a gun, for which they are reproved by Mr. Pickwick. However, Tupman shoots a partridge by accident, which gains him the reputation of being a marksman. At length they all have lunch, during which Mr. Pickwick drinks too much and falls asleep. The rest decide to leave him and come back for him later. A bit later the owner of the land, a fierce, belligerent man named Captain Boldwig, comes upon the sleeping Pickwick and has him carted to the animal pound. There a crowd gathers and starts throwing things at Mr. Pickwick, but he is rescued by Mr. Wardle and Sam Weller. His sense of humiliation is gradually overcome by his natural good humor.

