‘My dear friend,’ said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle’s hand, ‘my dear friend, pray, for Heaven’s sake, explain to this lady the unfortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it from my servant; say, at all events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber nor a madman.’ ‘I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,’ replied Mr. Wardle, shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left. ‘And whoever says, or has said, he is,’ interposed Mr. Weller, stepping forward, ‘says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary, quite the rewerse. And if there’s any number o’ men on these here premises as has said so, I shall be wery happy to give ‘em all a wery convincing proof o’ their being mistaken, in this here wery room, if these wery respectable ladies ‘ll have the goodness to retire, and order ‘em up, one at a time.’ Having delivered this defiance with great volubility, Mr. Weller struck his open palm emphatically with his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins, the intensity of whose horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that there could be any men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment for Young Ladies, it is impossible to describe. Mr. Pickwick’s explanation having already been partially made, was soon concluded. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor afterwards when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed, could a single observation be drawn from him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once, and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle, and said-- ‘How did you come here?’ ‘Trundle and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,’ replied Wardle. ‘We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant that you were here too. But I am glad you are,’ said the old fellow, slapping him on the back--‘I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the first, and we’ll give Winkle another chance--eh, old boy?’ Mr. Pickwick made no reply, he did not even ask after his friends at Dingley Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle when he rung. The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself. ‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes. ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller. Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle. ‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort. ‘Sir,’ said Mr. Weller, once more. ‘Where is that Trotter?’ ‘Job, sir?’ ‘Yes. ‘Gone, sir.’ ‘With his master, I suppose?’ ‘Friend or master, or whatever he is, he’s gone with him,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘There’s a pair on ‘em, sir.’ ‘Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this story, I suppose?’ said Mr. Pickwick, half choking. ‘Just that, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller. ‘It was all false, of course?’