“This foolish fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on the head as he knelt down to button up his master’s gaiters⁠—“this foolish fellow has got himself arrested, in order to be near me.”

“What!” exclaimed the three friends.

“Yes, gen’l’m’n,” said Sam, “I’m a⁠—stand steady, sir, if you please⁠—I’m a prisoner, gen’l’m’n. Con-fined, as the lady said.”

“A prisoner!” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence.

“Hallo, sir!” responded Sam, looking up. “Wot’s the matter, Sir?”

“I had hoped, Sam, that⁠—Nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Winkle precipitately.