“What reptile?” said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider.

“That reptile,” whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and pointing towards the stranger. “That reptile Slurk, of the Independent !”

“Perhaps we had better retire,” whispered Mr. Pickwick.

“Never, Sir,” rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense⁠—“never.” With these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle, and selecting one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read against his enemy.