“Bless you, my dear fellow!” replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as he returned the pressure of his young friend’s hand.
“Now then!” cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery.
“Yes, yes, directly,” replied Mr. Winkle. “Good night!”
“Good night,” said Mr. Pickwick.
There was another good night, and another, and half-a-dozen more after that, and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’s hand, and was looking into his face with the same strange expression.
“Is anything the matter?” said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was quite sore with shaking.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Winkle.
“Well then, good night,” said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his hand.
“My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,” murmured Mr. Winkle, catching at his wrist. “Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear that, driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I——”
“Now then,” said Mr. Tupman, reappearing at the door. “Are you coming, or are we to be locked in?”