Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

           ‘Sir!’saidthedoctor,inanawfulvoice,producingacard,andretiringintoanangleofthepassage,‘mynameisSlammer,DoctorSlammer,sir—97thRegiment—ChathamBarracks—mycard,Sir,mycard.’Hewouldhaveaddedmore,buthisindignationchokedhim.

           ‘Ah!’repliedthestrangercoolly,‘Slammer—muchobliged—politeattention—notillnow,Slammer—butwhenIam—knockyouup.’

           ‘You—you’reashuffler,sir,’gaspedthefuriousdoctor,‘apoltroon—acoward—aliar—a—a—willnothinginduceyoutogivemeyourcard,sir!’‘Oh!Isee,’saidthestranger,halfaside,‘negustoostronghere—liberallandlord—veryfoolish—very—lemonademuchbetter—hotrooms—elderlygentlemen—sufferforitinthemorning—cruel—cruel;’andhemovedonasteportwo.

           ‘Youarestoppinginthishouse,Sir,’saidtheindignantlittleman;‘youareintoxicatednow,Sir;youshallhearfrommeinthemorning,sir.Ishallfindyouout,sir;Ishallfindyouout.’

           ‘Ratheryoufoundmeoutthanfoundmeathome,’repliedtheunmovedstranger.

           DoctorSlammerlookedunutterableferocity,ashefixedhishatonhisheadwithanindignantknock;andthestrangerandMr.TupmanascendedtothebedroomofthelattertorestoretheborrowedplumagetotheunconsciousWinkle.

           Thatgentlemanwasfastasleep;therestorationwassoonmade.