The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winkle stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution; and Mr. Tupman looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted; four birds flew out. Mr. Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual--not a rook--in corporal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm. To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr. Pickwick in the first transports of emotion called Mr. Winkle ‘Wretch!’ how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground; and how Mr. Winkle knelt horror-stricken beside him; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly upon some feminine Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell back and shut them both--all this would be as difficult to describe in detail, as it would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the binding up of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends. They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden gate, waiting for their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared; she smiled, and beckoned them to walk quicker. ‘Twas evident she knew not of the disaster. Poor thing! there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed. They approached nearer. ‘Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman?’ said Isabella Wardle. The spinster aunt heeded not the remark; she thought it applied to Mr. Pickwick. In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth; she viewed his years through a diminishing glass. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ called out the old host, fearful of alarming his daughters. The little party had crowded so completely round Mr. Tupman, that they could not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ said the host. ‘What’s the matter?’ screamed the ladies. ‘Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident; that’s all.’ The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric laugh, and fell backwards in the arms of her nieces. ‘Throw some cold water over her,’ said the old gentleman. ‘No, no,’ murmured the spinster aunt; ‘I am better now. Bella, Emily--a surgeon! Is he wounded?--Is he dead?--Is he--Ha, ha, ha!’ Here the spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with screams. ‘Calm yourself,’ said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression of sympathy with his sufferings. ‘Dear, dear madam, calm yourself.’ ‘It is his voice!’ exclaimed the spinster aunt; and strong symptoms of fit number three developed themselves forthwith. ‘Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,’ said Mr. Tupman soothingly. ‘I am very little hurt, I assure you.’ ‘Then you are not dead!’ ejaculated the hysterical lady. ‘Oh, say you are not dead!’