“A humbug, Sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, Sir.”
With these words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends.
While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy sliding which is currently denominated “knocking at the cobbler’s door,” and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a two-penny postman’s knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.
“It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it?” he enquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable manner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn complicated problems on the ice.
“Ah, it does, indeed,” replied Wardle. “Do you slide?”
“I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,” replied Mr. Pickwick.
“Try it now,” said Wardle.
“Oh, do, please Mr. Pickwick,” cried all the ladies.
“I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.”
“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said Wardle, dragging off his skaits with the impetuosity which characterised all his proceedings. “Here; I’ll keep you company; come along.” And away went the good-tempered old fellow down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to nothing.