Посмертні записки Піквікського клубу

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

           Joe!Joe!’(Sundrytapsontheheadwithastick,andthefatboy,withsomedifficulty,rousedfromhislethargy.)‘Come,handintheeatables.’

           Therewassomethinginthesoundofthelastwordwhichrousedtheunctuousboy.Hejumpedup,andtheleadeneyeswhichtwinkledbehindhismountainouscheeksleeredhorriblyuponthefoodasheunpackeditfromthebasket.

           ‘Nowmakehaste,’saidMr.Wardle;forthefatboywashangingfondlyoveracapon,whichheseemedwhollyunabletopartwith.Theboysigheddeeply,and,bestowinganardentgazeuponitsplumpness,unwillinglyconsignedittohismaster.

           ‘That’srightlooksharp.Nowthetonguenowthepigeonpie.Takecareofthatvealandhammindthelobsterstakethesaladoutoftheclothgivemethedressing.’SuchwerethehurriedorderswhichissuedfromthelipsofMr.Wardle,ashehandedinthedifferentarticlesdescribed,andplaceddishesineverybody’shands,andoneverybody’sknees,inendlessnumber.‘Nowain’tthiscapital?’inquiredthatjollypersonage,whentheworkofdestructionhadcommenced.

           ‘Capital!’saidMr.Winkle,whowascarvingafowlonthebox.

           ‘Glassofwine?’

           ‘Withthegreatestpleasure.’‘You’dbetterhaveabottletoyourselfupthere,hadn’tyou?’

           ‘You’reverygood.’

           ‘Joe!’

           ‘Yes,Sir.

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