The latter observation was addressed to the boy in grey, who, having handed over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to see what all the noise was about. Between the boy in grey, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Benjamin Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a fainting fit, was affectionately solicitous for her recovery), the old lady was, at length, restored to consciousness; then Mr. Ben Allen, turning with a puzzled countenance to Mr. Pickwick, asked him what he was about to say, when he had been so alarmingly interrupted.
“We are all friends here, I presume?” said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his voice, and looking towards the man of few words with the surly countenance who drove the fly with the chubby horse.
This reminded Mr. Bob Sawyer that the boy in grey was looking on, with eyes wide open, and greedy ears. The incipient chemist having been lifted up by his coat collar, and dropped outside the door, Bob Sawyer assured Mr. Pickwick that he might speak without reserve.
“Your sister, my dear sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin Allen, “is in London; well and happy.”
“Her happiness is no object to me, sir,” said Mr. Benjamin Allen, with a flourish of the hand.
“Her husband is an object to me, sir,” said Bob Sawyer. “He shall be an object to me sir, at twelve paces, and a very pretty object I’ll make of him, sir—a mean-spirited scoundrel!” This, as it stood, was a very pretty denunciation, and magnanimous withal; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather weakened its effect, by winding up with some general observations concerning the punching of heads and knocking out of eyes, which were commonplace by comparison.
“Stay, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick; “before you apply those epithets to the gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his fault, and above all remember that he is a friend of mine.”
“What!” said Mr. Bob Sawyer.
“His name!” cried Ben Allen. “His name!”
“Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,” said Mr. Pickwick.