Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank-- ‘Sam!’ ‘Sir?’ ‘Here. I want you.’ ‘Let go, Sir,’ said Sam. ‘Don’t you hear the governor a-callin’? Let go, sir.’ With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to the unhappy Mr. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. ‘Are you hurt?’ inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety. ‘Not much,’ said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. ‘I wish you’d let me bleed you,’ said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness. ‘No, thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. ‘I really think you had better,’ said Allen. ‘Thank you,’ replied Mr. Winkle; ‘I’d rather not.’ ‘What do _you _think, Mr. Pickwick?’ inquired Bob Sawyer. Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, ‘Take his skates off.’ ‘No; but really I had scarcely begun,’ remonstrated Mr. Winkle. ‘Take his skates off,’ repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly. The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it, in silence. ‘Lift him up,’ said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the bystanders; and, beckoning his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words-- ‘You’re a humbug, sir.’ A what?’ said Mr. Winkle, starting. ‘A humbug, Sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.’ With those words, Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his friends. While Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours cut out a slide, were exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is currently denominated ‘knocking at the cobbler’s door,’ and which is achieved by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman’s knock upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not help envying.