Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

How Mr. Winkle, instead of shooting at the Pigeon and killing the Crow, shot at the Crow and wounded

           

           ‘Areyou,sir?’inquiredMr.Snodgrass.

           ‘Iwasonceuponatime,’repliedthehost;‘butIhavegivenitupnow.Isubscribetotheclubhere,butIdon’tplay.’

           ‘Thegrandmatchisplayedto-day,Ibelieve,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Itis,’repliedthehost.‘Ofcourseyouwouldliketoseeit.’

           ‘I,sir,’repliedMr.Pickwick,‘amdelightedtoviewanysportswhichmaybesafelyindulgedin,andinwhichtheimpotenteffectsofunskilfulpeopledonotendangerhumanlife.’Mr.Pickwickpaused,andlookedsteadilyonMr.Winkle,whoquailedbeneathhisleader’ssearchingglance.Thegreatmanwithdrewhiseyesafterafewminutes,andadded:‘Shallwebejustifiedinleavingourwoundedfriendtothecareoftheladies?’

           ‘Youcannotleavemeinbetterhands,’saidMr.Tupman.

           ‘Quiteimpossible,’saidMr.Snodgrass.

           ItwasthereforesettledthatMr.Tupmanshouldbeleftathomeinchargeofthefemales;andthattheremainderoftheguests,undertheguidanceofMr.Wardle,shouldproceedtothespotwherewastobeheldthattrialofskill,whichhadrousedallMuggletonfromitstorpor,andinoculatedDingleyDellwithafeverofexcitement.

           Astheirwalk,whichwasnotabovetwomileslong,laythroughshadylanesandsequesteredfootpaths,andastheirconversationturneduponthedelightfulscenerybywhichtheywereoneverysidesurrounded,Mr.

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