it,' added Sam, looking at Mr Winkle, 'I haven't got any right to say

what 'It is, fear it should be a wrong 'un.'

'I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of a

friend, however intimate a friend,' said Mr Pickwick, after a short

silence; 'at present let me merely say, that I do not understand this at

all. There. We have had quite enough of the subject.'

Thus expressing himself, Mr Pickwick led the conversation to different

topics, and Mr Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still

very far from being completely so. They had all so much to converse

about, that the morning very quickly passed away; and when, at three

o'clock, Mr Weller produced upon the little dining-table, a roast leg of

mutton and an enormous meat- pie, with sundry dishes of vegetables,

and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa bedstead,

or where they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal,

notwithstanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and

the pie made, and baked, at the prison cookery hard by.

To these succeeded a bottle or two of very good wine, for which a

messenger was despatched by Mr Pickwick to the Horn Coffee-house,

in Doctors' Commons. The bottle or two, indeed, might be more

properly described as a bottle or six, for by the time it was drunk, and

tea over, the bell began to ring for strangers to withdraw.

But, if Mr Winkle's behaviour had been unaccountable in the

morning, it became perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the

influence of his feelings, and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared

to take leave of his friend. He lingered behind, until Mr Tupman and

Mr Snodgrass had disappeared, and then fervently clenched Mr

Pickwick's hand, with an expression of face in which deep and mighty

resolve was fearfully blended with the very concentrated essence of

gloom.

Good-night, my dear Sir!' said Mr Winkle between his set teeth.

Bless you, my dear fellow!' replied the warm-hearted Mr Pickwick, as

he returned the pressure of his young friend's hand.

'Now then!' cried Mr Tupman from the gallery.

'Yes, yes, directly,' replied Mr Winkle. 'Good-night!'

'Good-night,' said Mr Pickwick.

There was another good-night, and another, and half a dozen more

after that, and still Mr Winkle had fast hold of his friend's hand, and

was looking into his face with the same strange expression.

The Pickwick Papers