It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was on the point of delivering some remarks which would have enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when he was thus interrupted; for he gazed sternly on the waiter’s countenance, and then looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to the new comers.
“Oh!” said Mr. Winkle, rising, “some friends of mine—show them in. Very pleasant fellows,” added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired—“Officers of the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like them very much.”
Mr. Pickwick’s equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and ushered three gentlemen into the room.
“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—Dr. Slammer, Mr. Pickwick—Mr. Tupman, Doctor Slam—”
Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the countenance 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 Dr. Slammer.