“How slippery it is, Sam!”
“Just a goin’ to begin,” said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. “Now, Sir, start off.”
“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home, that I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”
“Thankee, Sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You needn’t take your hand away, to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas box, Sam. I’ll give it you this afternoon, Sam.”
“You’re wery good, Sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?” said Mr. Winkle. “There—that’s right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.”
Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank—
“Sam!”