"What did you go away for?"
The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and stammered out, that he didn't know.
"Oh," said Wardle, "you don't know, eh? Take this cheese to Mr. Pickwick."
Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been making himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this moment engaged in an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle: bowing his head, courteously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently waving his left hand to lend force to his observations, and all glowing with placid smiles. He took a piece of cheese from the plate, and was on the point of turning round to renew the conversation, when the fat boy, stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that of Mr. Pickwick, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most horrible and hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime.
"Dear me!" said Mr. Pickwick, starting, "what a very -- eh?" He stopped, for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast asleep.
"What's the matter?" inquired Wardle.
"This is such an extremely singular lad!" replied Mr. Pickwick, looking uneasily at the boy. "It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I am afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged."
"Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don't say so," cried Emily and Arabella, both at once.
"I am not certain, of course," said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound silence, and looks of general dismay; "but his manner to me this moment was really very alarming. Oh!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping up with a short scream. "I beg your pardon, ladies, but at that moment he ran some sharp instrument into my leg. Really he is not safe."
"He's drunk," roared old Wardle, passionately. "Ring the bell! Call the waiters! He's drunk."
"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 bed-room 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.
"You want to bite his ear off, I suppose," said Wardle. "Don't come near him; he's vicious; ring the bell, and let him be taken down-stairs."