Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           TwoorthreeDingleyDellers,andAll–Muggletonians,wereamusingthemselveswithamajesticairbythrowingtheballcarelesslyfromhandtohand;andseveralothergentlemendressedlikethem,instrawhats,flanneljackets,andwhitetrousersacostumeinwhichtheylookedverymuchlikeamateurstone-masonsweresprinkledaboutthetents,towardsoneofwhichMr.Wardleconductedtheparty.

           Severaldozenof‘How-are-you’s?’hailedtheoldgentleman’sarrival;andageneralraisingofthestrawhats,andbendingforwardoftheflanneljackets,followedhisintroductionofhisguestsasgentlemenfromLondon,whowereextremelyanxioustowitnesstheproceedingsoftheday,withwhich,hehadnodoubt,theywouldbegreatlydelighted.

           ‘Youhadbetterstepintothemarquee,Ithink,Sir,’saidoneverystoutgentleman,whosebodyandlegslookedlikehalfagiganticrollofflannel,elevatedonacoupleofinflatedpillow-cases.

           ‘You’llfinditmuchpleasanter,Sir,’urgedanotherstoutgentleman,whostronglyresembledtheotherhalfoftherollofflannelaforesaid.

           ‘You’reverygood,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Thisway,’saidthefirstspeaker;‘theynotchinhereit’sthebestplaceinthewholefield;’andthecricketer,pantingonbefore,precededthemtothetent.

           ‘Capitalgamesmartsportfineexercisevery,’werethewordswhichfelluponMr.

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