get the lady away, meanwhile." Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent.
"A hundred," said the little man.
"And twenty," said Mr. Jingle.
"My dear sir," remonstrated the little man.
"Give it him," interposed Mr. Wardle, "and let him go."
The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr. Jingle.
"Now, leave this house instantly!" said Wardle, starting up.
"My dear sir," urged the little man.
"And mind," said Mr. Wardle, "that nothing should have induced me to make this compromise—not even a regard for my family—if I had not known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it—"
"My dear sir," urged the little man again.
"Be quiet, Perker," resumed Wardle. "Leave the room, sir."
"Off directly," said the unabashed Jingle. "Bye bye, Pickwick."
If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illustrious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes, did not melt the glasses of his spectacles—so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again—he did not pulverise him.
"Here," continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr. Pickwick's feet; "get the name altered—take home the lady—do for Tuppy."
Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, to his very heart.
