“Wery well, sir.”
“And you will sit up, till I return.”
“Cert’nly, sir.”
“Take hold of my leg; and when I say ‘Over,’ raise me gently.”
“All right, sir.”
Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the wall, and gave the word “Over,” which was very literally obeyed. Whether his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether Mr. Weller’s notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description than Mr. Pickwick’s, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that immortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after crushing three gooseberry-bushes and a rose-tree, he finally alighted at full length.
“You ha’n’t hurt yourself, I hope, sir?” said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon as he recovered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance of his master.
“I have not hurt myself, Sam, certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other side of the wall, “but I rather think that you have hurt me.”
“I hope not, sir,” said Sam.
“Never mind,” said Mr. Pickwick, rising, “it’s nothing but a few scratches. Go away, or we shall be overheard.”