Mr. Pickwick’s knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.

“Ah!” cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five-and-twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between him and the table, “regular mangle⁠—Baker’s patent⁠—not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing⁠—might have ‘got up my linen’ as I came along⁠—ha! ha! not a bad idea, that⁠—queer thing to have it mangled when it’s upon one, though⁠—trying process⁠—very.”

With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.