“No,” said Mr. Tupman. “It is nothing. I shall be better presently.” He closed his eyes.
“He sleeps,” murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been closed nearly twenty seconds.) “Dear—dear—Mr. Tupman!”
Mr. Tupman jumped up—“Oh, say those words again!” he exclaimed.
The lady started. “Surely you did not hear them!” she said, bashfully.
“Oh yes, I did!” replied Mr. Tupman; “repeat them. If you would have me recover, repeat them.”
“Hush!” said the lady. “My brother.”
Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his former position; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied by a surgeon, entered the room.
The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a very slight one; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they proceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression of cheerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reserved. Doubt and distrust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr. Winkle had been shaken—greatly shaken—by the proceedings of the morning.
“Are you a cricketer?” inquired Mr. Wardle of the marksman.
At any other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt the delicacy of the situation, and modestly replied “No.”