“Here I am! but I hain’t a willin,” replied a voice. It was the fat boy’s.

“Let me get at him, Pickwick,” cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill-starred youth. “He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman!” (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) “Let me get at him!”

“Don’t let him!” screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.

“I won’t be held!” cried the old man. “ Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!”