Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

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

           Pickwick’searasheenteredthetent;andthefirstobjectthatmethiseyeswashisgreen-coatedfriendoftheRochestercoach,holdingforth,tothenosmalldelightandedificationofaselectcircleofthechosenofAll–Muggleton.Hisdresswasslightlyimproved,andheworeboots;buttherewasnomistakinghim.

           Thestrangerrecognisedhisfriendsimmediately;and,dartingforwardandseizingMr.Pickwickbythehand,draggedhimtoaseatwithhisusualimpetuosity,talkingallthewhileasifthewholeofthearrangementswereunderhisespecialpatronageanddirection.

           ‘Thisway—thisway—capitalfun—lotsofbeer—hogsheads;roundsofbeef—bullocks;mustard—cart-loads;gloriousday—downwithyou—makeyourselfathome—gladtoseeyou—very.’

           Mr.Pickwicksatdownashewasbid,andMr.WinkleandMr.Snodgrassalsocompliedwiththedirectionsoftheirmysteriousfriend.Mr.Wardlelookedoninsilentwonder.

           ‘Mr.Wardle—afriendofmine,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Friendofyours!—Mydearsir,howareyou?—Friendofmyfriend’s—givemeyourhand,sir’—andthestrangergraspedMr.Wardle’shandwithallthefervourofacloseintimacyofmanyyears,andthensteppedbackapaceortwoasiftotakeafullsurveyofhisfaceandfigure,andthenshookhandswithhimagain,ifpossible,morewarmlythanbefore.

           ‘Well;andhowcameyouhere?’saidMr.

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