| 698 | 699 | 700 | 701 | 702 |
| 1 | 198 | 396 | 594 | 792 |
|
of sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable
inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or
would prefer waiting 'till dinner-time;' which done, he sat down and
gazed about him with a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest
idea where he was, which indeed he had not.
All this was most embarrassing to Mr Pickwick, the more especially as
Mr Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric -
not to say extraordinary - behaviour of his two companions. To bring
the matter to an issue at once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and
presenting it to Mr Winkle, senior, said -
'This letter, Sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that on
your favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future
happiness and welfare. Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and
coolest perusal, and by discussing the subject afterwards with me, in
the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to be discussed? You may
judge of the importance of your decision to your son, and his intense
anxiety upon the subject, by my waiting upon you, without any
previous warning, at so late an hour; and,' added Mr Pickwick,
glancing slightly at his two companions - 'and under such
unfavourable circumstances.'
With this prelude, Mr Pickwick placed four closely-written sides of
extra superfine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the astounded Mr
Winkle, senior. Then reseating himself in his chair, he watched his
looks and manner: anxiously, it is true, but with the open front of a
gentleman who feels he has taken no part which he need excuse or
palliate. The old wharfinger turned the letter over, looked at the front,
back, and sides, made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy
on the seal, raised his eyes to Mr Pickwick's face, and then, seating
himself on the high stool, and drawing the lamp closer to him, broke
the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the light, prepared to
read. Just at this moment, Mr Bob Sawyer, whose wit had lain
dormant for some minutes, placed his hands on his knees, and made
a face after the portraits of the late Mr Grimaldi, as clown. It so
happened that Mr Winkle, senior, instead of being deeply engaged in
reading the letter, as Mr Bob Sawyer thought, chanced to be looking
over the top of it at no less a person than Mr Bob Sawyer himself;
rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and
derision of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such
expressive sternness, that the late Mr Grimaldi's lineaments gradually
resolved themselves into a very fine expression of humility and
confusion.
'Did you speak, Sir?' inquired Mr Winkle, senior, after an awful
silence.
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