It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s very unexpected gallantry, or it might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries. Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit manslaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright.
“Well; you’re a trump, and I like you all the better for it,” said the Zephyr. “Now jump into bed again, or you’ll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I hope?” said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swings over a glover’s door.
“Certainly not,” said Mr. Pickwick, with great alacrity; for now that the excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.
“Allow me the honour,” said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.
“With much pleasure, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.
“My name is Smangle, sir,” said the man with the whiskers.
“Oh,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Mine is Mivins,” said the man in the stockings.
“I am delighted to hear it, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“Hem,” coughed Mr. Smangle.