Mr. Grummer passed, and Mr. Dubbley passed, and the sedan passed, and the body-guard of specials passed, and Sam was still responding to the enthusiastic cheers of the mob, and waving his hat about as if he were in the very last extreme of the wildest joy (though, of course, he had not the faintest idea of the matter in hand), when he was suddenly stopped by the unexpected appearance of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass.
“What’s the row, gen’l’m’n?” cried Sam. “Who have they got in this here watch-box in mournin’?”
Both gentlemen replied together, but their words were lost in the tumult.
“Who?” cried Sam again.
Once more was a joint reply returned; and, though the words were inaudible, Sam saw by the motion of the two pairs of lips that they had uttered the magic word “Pickwick.”
This was enough. In another minute Mr. Weller had made his way through the crowd, stopped the chairmen, and confronted the portly Grummer.
“Hallo, old gen’l’m’n!” said Sam. “Who have you got in this here conwayance?”
“Stand back,” said Mr. Grummer, whose dignity, like the dignity of a great many other men, had been wondrously augmented by a little popularity.
“Knock him down, if he don’t,” said Mr. Dubbley.