While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment
just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by
their joint endeavors cut out a slide, were exercising themselves 30
thereupon in a very masterly and brilliant manner.
Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful
feat of fancy sliding which is currently denominated "knocking
at the cobbler's door," and which is achieved by skimming
over the ice on one foot and occasionally giving a two-penny
postman's knock upon it with the other. It was
a good long slide, and there was something in the motion 5
which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still,
could not help envying.
"It looks a nice warm exercise, that, doesn't it?" he
inquired of Wardle, when that gentleman was thoroughly
out of breath by reason of the indefatigable manner in 10
which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses
and drawn complicated problems on the ice.
"Ah, it does, indeed," replied Wardle. "Do you slide?"
"I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,"
replied Mr. Pickwick. 15
"Try it now," said Wardle.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves
and put them in his hat, took two or three short runs,
balked himself as often, and at last took another run and
went slowly and gravely down the slide with his feet about 20
a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of
all the spectators.
It was the most intensely interesting thing to observe
the manner in which Mr. Pickwick performed his share
in the ceremony; to watch the torture of anxiety with 25
which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at
the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him
gradually expend the painful force which he had put on
at first and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face
towards the point from which he had started; to contemplate 30
the playful smile which mantled on his face when he had
accomplished the distance and the eagerness with which he
turned round when he had done so and ran after his predecessor,
his black gaiters tripping pleasantly through
the snow and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and gladness
through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down
(which happened upon the average every third round), 5
it was the most invigorating sight that can possibly be
imagined to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and
handkerchief with a glowing countenance, and resume
his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm which
nothing could abate. 10
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest,
the laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart
crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards the bank,
a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman.
A large mass of ice disappeared, the water bubbled 15
up over it, and Mr. Pickwick's hat, gloves, and handkerchief
were floating on the surface; and this was all of Mr.
Pickwick that anybody could see.
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance;
the males turned pale, and the females fainted; Mr. Snodgrass 20
and Mr. Winkle grasped each other by the hand and
gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with
frenzied eagerness; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering
the promptest assistance and at the same time conveying
to any persons who might be within hearing the clearest 25
possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country
at his utmost speed, screaming "Fire!" with all his
might and main.
It was at this very moment—when old Wardle and Sam
Weller were approaching the hole with cautious steps and 30
Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried consultation
with Mr. Bob Sawyer on the advisability of bleeding the
company generally, as an improving little bit of professional
practice—it was at this very moment that a head, face,
and shoulders emerged from beneath the water, and disclosed
the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick.