There was another good night, and another, and half a dozen more after that, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’s hand, and was looking into his face with the same strange expression.

“ Is anything the matter?” said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was quite sore with shaking.

“Nothing,” said Mr. Winkle.

“Well then, good night,” said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his hand.