“You are bound to kick him on the spot,” murmured the owner of the camp-stool with great importance.
“Do be quiet, Payne,” interposed the Lieutenant. “Will you allow me to ask you, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by this very unpolite by-play, “will you allow me to ask you, sir, whether that person belongs to your party?”
“No, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “he is a guest of ours.”
“He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?” said the Lieutenant, inquiringly.
“Certainly not,” responded Mr. Pickwick.
“And never wears your club-button?” said the Lieutenant.
“No—never!” replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Dr. Slammer, with a scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of the accuracy of his recollection. The little Doctor looked wrathful, but confounded; and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the unconscious Pickwick.
“Sir,” said the Doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which made that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly inserted in the calf of his leg, “you were at the ball here last night!”