“And what became of what’s-his-name, sir?” inquired an old gentleman.
“Blazo?”
“No—the other gentleman.”
“Quanko Samba?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Poor Quanko—never recovered it—bowled on, on my account—bowled off, on his own—died, sir.” Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown jug, but whether to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dell club approached Mr. Pickwick, and said—
“We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, sir; we hope you and your friends will join us.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Wardle, “among our friends we include Mr. ——;” and he looked towards the stranger.
“Jingle,” said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once. “Jingle—Alfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.”