"I know the gentleman 'll put that ere charge into somebody afore he's done," growled the long man.
"Well, well—I don't mind," said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock uppermost;—"there."
"Anythin' for a quiet life," said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.
"Stop!" said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards further.
"What now?" said Wardle.
"That gun of Tupman's is not safe: I know it isn't," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Eh? What! Not safe?" said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.
"Not as you are carrying it," said Mr. Pickwick. "I am very sorry to make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle does his."
"I think you had better, sir," said the long gamekeeper, "or you're quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else."
Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the two amateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royal funeral.
The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too.
"What's the matter with the dogs' legs?" whispered Mr. Winkle. "How queer they're standing."
"Hush, can't vou?" replied Wardle, softly. "Don't you see, they're making a point?"
"Making a point!" said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to. "Making a point! What are they pointing at?"
"Keep your eyes open," said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excitement of the moment. "Now then."
