"How dare you drag my sister from my house?" said the old man.
"Ay—ay—very good," said the little gentleman, "you may ask that. How dare you, sir?—eh, sir?"
"Who the devil are you?" inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two.
"Who is he, you scoundrel," interposed Wardle. "He's my lawyer, Mr. Perker, of Gray's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow prosecuted—indicted—I'll—I'll—I'll ruin him. And you," continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister, "you, Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and making yourself miserable. Get on your bonnet, and come back. Call a hackney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady's bill, d'ye hear—d'ye hear?"
"Cert'nly, sir," replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole during the whole interview.
"Get on your bonnet," repeated Wardle.
"Do nothing of the kind," said Jingle. "Leave the room, sir—no business here—lady's free to act as she pleases—more than one-and-twenty."
"More than one-and-twenty!" ejaculated Wardle, contemptuously. "More than one-and-forty!"
"I a'nt," said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of her determination to faint.
"You are," replied Wardle, "you're fifty if you're an hour."
Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless.
"A glass of water," said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the landlady.
"A glass of water!" said the passionate Wardle. Bring
