Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

A Field Day and Bivouac — More new Friends — An Invitation to the Country

           

           ‘I—I—ratherthink,’saidMr.Winkle,changingcolour—‘Iratherthinkthey’regoingtofire.’

           ‘Nonsense,’saidMr.Pickwickhastily.

           ‘I—I—reallythinktheyare,’urgedMr.Snodgrass,somewhatalarmed.

           ‘Impossible,’repliedMr.Pickwick.Hehadhardlyutteredtheword,whenthewholehalf-dozenregimentslevelledtheirmusketsasiftheyhadbutonecommonobject,andthatobjectthePickwickians,andburstforthwiththemostawfulandtremendousdischargethatevershooktheearthtoitscentres,oranelderlygentlemanoffhis.

           Itwasinthistryingsituation,exposedtoagallingfireofblankcartridges,andharassedbytheoperationsofthemilitary,afreshbodyofwhomhadbeguntofallinontheoppositeside,thatMr.Pickwickdisplayedthatperfectcoolnessandself-possession,whicharetheindispensableaccompanimentsofagreatmind.HeseizedMr.Winklebythearm,andplacinghimselfbetweenthatgentlemanandMr.Snodgrass,earnestlybesoughtthemtorememberthatbeyondthepossibilityofbeingrendereddeafbythenoise,therewasnoimmediatedangertobeapprehendedfromthefiring.

           ‘Butbutsupposesomeofthemenshouldhappentohaveballcartridgesbymistake,’remonstratedMr.Winkle,pallidatthesuppositionhewashimselfconjuringup.‘Iheardsomethingwhistlethroughtheairnowsosharp;closetomyear.

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