Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 40: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Pickwick Abroad. 13 helped, he as liberally indulged himself in the consumption of the deli- cate food. , “Winkle, a glass of wine,” said Mr. Pickwick. ‘¢ With pleasure,”’ said Mr. Winkle; and the Burgundy was accord- ingly poured out and drank. ‘¢ Elder-wine—is it not?’ enquired Mr. Pickwick, emptying his glass, and smacking his lips with a peculiar rélish. “Burgundy, Sir,” said the waiter—‘* best Burgundy.” “TI was just going to tell you so,” observed Mr. Winkle ; ‘‘ and a very excellent glass of wine it is.” In the meantime Mr. Pickwick had helped himself a third time to the pie before him, and was about to commencea vigorous attack thereon, when his attention was suddenly attracted to Mr. Tupman, whose features were screwed up in a most extraordinary manner, and seemed to indicate every appearance of a desire to vomit on the part of that gentleman. ‘“‘ Tupman—are you ill?’ exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, laying down his knife and fork, and helping himself to a glass of wine in amomentary fit of absence caused by the alarming situation of his friend. “Pray, don’t.be sick, Tupman—now, don’t, there’s a good fellow,” cried Mr, Winkle, nm amiable commiseration of that gentleman’s indis- position. | “‘ Oh, that pie!”’ groaned Mr. Tupman, retching most frightfully, while the tears ran down his cheeks. ‘“ Waiter!’’ said Mr, Pickwick in an angry tone of voice: then, fearful that his rising choler might ovecome the equanimity of his temper, he tossed off the wine he had poured out in order to allow himself time for reflection. . “ Yes—Sir,” said the waiter, stepping forward from the side-table _ where he was stationed. eer aut ‘What is in that pie, waiter?” enquired Mr. Pickwick. ‘6 Ves—what és in it 2”? demanded Mr. Winkle, menacingly. ‘In mercy, waiter—what was it made of?’ murmured Mr. Tupman, whose face was now ghastly pale. — ‘¢ Made of, Sir?’’ repeated the waiter. “ Ves—made of,” cried Mr. Winkle, very angrily, and in a tone which seemed to assure the waiter that he would not be trifled with. “ Young frogs’ legs, I fancy, Sir,”’ said the walter, with the utmost coolness; and having assured himself of the truth of his statement by a glance at the dish, he added, “ Yes, Sir—they ave frogs’ legs.” In one moment Mr. Pickwick’s lap received the contents of Mr. Tupman’s stomach, and Mr. Winkle rushed towards the bell, and pulled it with all his might, although the waiter was in the room, As for Mr. Pickwick, he was so bewildered by the communication made by the waiter, the idea of having eaten frogs’ legs, and the certainty of having been made a hand-bason of by Mr. Tupman, that, ina moment of venial desperation, he seized the nearest bottle upon the table, and having poured out a tumbler of its contents, drank it at a draught. Mr. Weller, who had left the apartment only a few minutes before the commencement of this extraordinary scene to look after his own luncheon, hastened to the coffee-room the moment he heard the beil ringing with all the violence that Mr. Winkle’s arms could impart to CORNICLOO© cS (C(O)