Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

The first Day’s Journey, and the first Evening’s Adventures; with their Consequences

           Tupman’swaistcoat,andthendancedintotheroad,andthenbackagaintothepavement,andfinallydashedthewholetemporarysupplyofbreathoutofMr.Winkle’sbody;andallinhalfadozenseconds.

           ‘Where’sanofficer?’saidMr.Snodgrass.

           ‘Put’emunderthepump,’suggestedahot-pieman.

           ‘Youshallsmartforthis,’gaspedMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Informers!’shoutedthecrowd.

           ‘Comeon,’criedthecabman,whohadbeensparringwithoutcessationthewholetime.

           Themobhithertohadbeenpassivespectatorsofthescene,butastheintelligenceofthePickwickiansbeinginformerswasspreadamongthem,theybegantocanvasswithconsiderablevivacitytheproprietyofenforcingtheheatedpastry-vendor’sproposition:andthereisnosayingwhatactsofpersonalaggressiontheymighthavecommitted,hadnottheaffraybeenunexpectedlyterminatedbytheinterpositionofanew-comer.

           ‘What’sthefun?’saidarathertall,thin,youngman,inagreencoat,emergingsuddenlyfromthecoach-yard.

           ‘informers!’shoutedthecrowdagain.

           ‘Wearenot,’roaredMr.Pickwick,inatonewhich,toanydispassionatelistener,carriedconvictionwithit.‘Ain’tyou,thoughain’tyou?’saidtheyoungman,appealingtoMr.Pickwick,andmakinghiswaythroughthecrowdbytheinfallibleprocessofelbowingthecountenancesofitscomponentmembers.

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