‘Lieutenant Tappleton,’ said Mr. Winkle, ‘Lieutenant Tappleton, Mr. Pickwick—Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Snodgrass you have seen before, my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne—Doctor Slammer, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam—’
Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the doctor.
‘I have met this gentleman before,’ said the Doctor, with marked emphasis.
‘Indeed!’ said Mr. Winkle.
‘And—and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,’ said the doctor, bestowing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. ‘I think I gave that person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to decline.’ Saying which the doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered his friend Lieutenant Tappleton.
‘You don’t say so,’ said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper.
‘I do, indeed,’ replied Doctor Slammer.
‘You are bound to kick him on the spot,’ murmured the owner of the camp-stool, with great importance.
‘Do be quiet, Payne,’ interposed the lieutenant. ‘Will you allow me to ask you, sir,’ he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by-play—‘will you allow me to ask you, Sir, whether that person belongs to your party?’
‘No, Sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘he is a guest of ours.’