“Yes, sir.”

“Poor Quanko⁠—never recovered it⁠—bowled on, on my account⁠—bowled off, on his own⁠—died, sir.” Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said⁠—

“We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, Sir; we hope you and your friends will join us.”

“Of course,” said Mr. Wardle, “among our friends we include Mr. ⁠—”; and he looked towards the stranger.