There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed

chuckle. Mr Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been

the fat boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in

his whole visage.

He must have been fast asleep,' whispered Mr Tupman.

I have not the least doubt of it,' replied the spinster aunt.

They both laughed heartily.

Mr, Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast

asleep. He was awake - wide awake - to what had been going forward.

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation.

The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself

exclusively to Mr Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved for

Mr Tupman; and Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some

distant object - possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.

Eleven - twelve - one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not

arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been

waylaid and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every

direction by which they could be supposed likely to have travelled

home? or should they - Hark! there they were. What could have made

them so late? A strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They

rushed into the kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at

once obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the

case.

Mr Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked

completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking

his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the

blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto

by any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr Wardle, with

a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange

gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr Winkle,

supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking

destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should

suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr Snodgrass

had sunk into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and

hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every

lineament of his expressive face.

is anything the matter?' inquired the three ladies.

Nothing the matter,' replied Mr Pickwick. 'We - we're - all right. - I

say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'

The Pickwick Papers