“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “I’m coming.”
“Just a goin’ to begin,” said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. “Now, sir, start off!”
“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. “I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home I don’t want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”
“Thank’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I’ll give it you this afternoon, Sam.”
“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Just hold me at first, Sam; will you?” said Mr. Winkle. “There—that’s right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not too fast.”
Mr. Winkle stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a most singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank:
“Sam!”