“I ain’t,” said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him by the collar. “I ain’t drunk.”
“Then you’re mad; that’s worse. Call the waiters,” said the old gentleman.
“I ain’t mad; I’m sensible,” rejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry.
“Then, what the devil do you run sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s legs for?” inquired Wardle, angrily.
“He wouldn’t look at me,” replied the boy. “I wanted to speak to him.”
“What did you want to say?” asked half a dozen voices at once.
The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped two tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers.
“What did you want to say?” demanded Wardle, shaking him.
“Stop!” said Mr. Pickwick; “allow me. What did you wish to communicate to me, my poor boy?”
“I want to whisper to you,” replied the fat boy.