“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Mr. Weller.
“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’s confusion and embarrassment.
“Sir?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Certainly not, sir.” So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.
“Bravo, old fellow!” said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; “you fired that time, at all events.”
“Oh yes,” replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. “I let it off.”
“Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, an’t it?”
“Yes, it’s very easy,” said Mr. Tupman. “How it hurts one’s shoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea that these small fire-arms kicked so.”
“Ah,” said the old gentleman, smiling; “you’ll get used to it in time. Now then—all ready—all right with the barrow there?”