‘Are you a cricketer?’ inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.
At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, ‘No.’
‘Are you, sir?’ inquired Mr. Snodgrass.
‘I was once upon a time,’ replied the host; ‘but I have given it up now. I subscribe to the club here, but I don’t play.’
‘The grand match is played to-day, I believe,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘It is,’ replied the host. ‘Of course you would like to see it.’
‘I, sir,’ replied Mr. Pickwick, ‘am delighted to view any sports which may be safely indulged in, and in which the impotent effects of unskilful people do not endanger human life.’ Mr. Pickwick paused, and looked steadily on Mr. Winkle, who quailed beneath his leader’s searching glance. The great man withdrew his eyes after a few minutes, and added: ‘Shall we be justified in leaving our wounded friend to the care of the ladies?’
‘You cannot leave me in better hands,’ said Mr. Tupman.
‘Quite impossible,’ said Mr. Snodgrass.
It was therefore settled that Mr. Tupman should be left at home in charge of the females; and that the remainder of the guests, under the guidance of Mr. Wardle, should proceed to the spot where was to be held that trial of skill, which had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with a fever of excitement.