“He’s drunk,” roared old Wardle passionately. “Ring the bell! Call the waiters! He’s drunk.”

“I ain’t,” said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him by the collar. “I ain’t drunk.”

“Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,” said the old gentleman.

“I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,” rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.

“Then, what the devil did you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s legs for?” inquired Wardle angrily.

“He wouldn’t look at me,” replied the boy. “I wanted to speak to him.”

“What did you want to say?” asked half a dozen voices at once.