On Christmas morning Mr. Wardle invited Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr.
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and his other guests to go down to the pond.
“You skate, of course, Winkle?” said Mr. Wardle.
“Ye--s; oh, yes!” replied Mr. Winkle. “I--I--am _rather_ out of
practice.”
“Oh, _do_ skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like to see it so
much.”
“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady.
A third young lady said it was “elegant,” and a fourth expressed her
opinion that it was “swanlike.”
“I should be very happy, I am sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening, “but I
have no skates.”
This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pairs, and
the fat boy announced that there were half a dozen more downstairs;
whereat Mr. Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely
uncomfortable.
Mr. Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice; and the fat boy
and Mr. Weller having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen
on it during the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a
dexterity which to Mr. Winkle was perfectly marvellous, and described
circles with his left leg, and cut figures of eight, and inscribed upon
the ice, without once stopping for breath, a great many other pleasant
and astonishing devices,--to the excessive satisfaction of Mr. Pickwick,
Mr. Tupman, and the ladies,--which reached a pitch of positive
enthusiasm when Mr. Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by Bob Sawyer,
performed some mystic evolutions which they called a reel.
All this time Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue with the cold,
had been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his shoes, and putting his
skates on, with the points behind, and getting the straps into a very
complicated state, with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather
less about skates than a Hindoo. At length, however, with the
assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate skates were firmly screwed and
buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet.
“Now, then, sir,” said Sam, in an encouraging tone, “off with you, and
show them how to do it.”
“Stop, Sam, stop!” said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching
hold of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. “How slippery it
is, Sam!”
“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “Hold up,
sir!”
This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration
Mr. Winkle made at the instant of a frantic desire to throw his feet in
the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.
“These--these--are very awkward skates; aren’t they, Sam?” inquired Mr.
Winkle, staggering.
“I’m afraid there’s an awkward gentleman in ’em, sir,” replied Sam.
“Now, Winkle,” cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was
anything the matter. “Come; the ladies are all anxiety.”
“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “I’m coming.”
“Just going to begin,” said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. “Now,
sir, start off!”
“Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately
to Mr. Weller. “I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t
want, Sam. You may have them, Sam.”
“Thank ’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You
needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five
shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I’ll give it to you
this afternoon, Sam.”
“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Just hold me at first, Sam, will you?” said Mr. Winkle. “There--that’s
right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam; not
too fast.”
Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being
assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and unswanlike
manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the bank, “Sam!”
“Sir?”
“Here. I want you.”
“Let go, sir,” said Sam. “Don’t you hear the governor calling? Let go,
sir.”
With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of
the agonized 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. 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 on skates. He
was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish
was depicted on every lineament of his face.
“Are you hurt?” inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.
“Not much,” said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.
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 shall speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor,
sir.”
[Illustration: ON THE SLIDE]
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 endeavors
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 called “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.
“It looks like a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it?” he inquired of
Mr. Wardle.
“Ah, it does indeed,” replied Wardle. “Do you slide?”
“I used to do so on the gutters, when I was a boy,” replied Mr.
Pickwick.
“Try it now,” said Wardle.
“Oh, do, please, Mr. Pickwick!” cried all the ladies.
“I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,” replied Mr.
Pickwick, “but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.”
“Pooh, pooh! Nonsense!” said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the
impetuosity which characterized all his proceedings. “Here, I’ll keep
you company; come along!” And away went the good-tempered old fellow
down the slide, with a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller,
and beat the fat boy all to nothing.
Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in
his hat, took two or three short runs, stopped as often, and at last
took another run and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his
feet about a yard and a quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of
all the spectators.
“Keep the pot a-boiling, sir,” said Sam; and down went Wardle again, and
then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob
Sawyer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely
upon each other’s heels, and running after each other with as much
eagerness as if all their future prospects in life depended on their
expedition.
It was the most intensely interesting thing to observe the manner in
which Mr. Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony; to watch the
torture of anxiety with which he viewed the person behind gaining upon
him at the imminent hazard of tripping him up; to see him gradually
expend the painful force he had put on at first, and turn slowly round
on the slide, with his face towards the point from which he had started;
to contemplate the playful smile which mantled his face when he had
accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he turned round
when he had done so and ran after his predecessor; his black gaiters
tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness
and gladness through his spectacles; and when he was knocked down
(which happened on the average of every third round), it was the most
invigorating sight that can possibly be imagined to behold him gather up
his hat, gloves, and handkerchief, with a glowing countenance, and
resume his station in the rank with an ardor and enthusiasm that nothing
could abate.
The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the
laughter was at the loudest, when a sharp, smart crack was heard. There
was a quick rush towards the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a
shout from Mr. Tupman. A large mass of ice disappeared; the water
bubbled up over it; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, and handkerchief were
floating on the surface, and this was all of Mr. Pickwick that anybody
could see.
Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance; the men turned
pale and the women fainted; Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each
other by the hand, and gazed with frenzied eagerness at the spot where
their leader had gone down; while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the
promptest assistance, ran off across the country at his utmost speed,
screaming “Fire!” with all his might.
It was at this moment, when Mr. Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching
the hole with cautious steps, that a face, head, and shoulders emerged
from beneath the water, and disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr.
Pickwick.
“Keep yourself up for an instant--for only one instant!” bawled Mr.
Snodgrass.
“Yes, do, let me implore you--for my sake!” roared Mr. Winkle, deeply
affected.
“Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow?” said Wardle.
“Yes, certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head
and face, and gasping for breath. “I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get
on my feet at first.”
The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible bore
testimony to the truth of this statement; and as the fears of the
spectators were still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly
recollecting that the water was nowhere more than five feet deep,
prodigies of valor were performed to get him out. After a vast quantity
of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pickwick was at length
fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more stood on
dry land.
“Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,” said Emily.
“Let me wrap this shawl round you,” said Arabella.
“Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,” said Wardle; “and when you’ve
got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into
bed directly.”
A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the
thickest having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started
off, under the guidance of Mr. Weller, presenting the singular
appearance of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat,
with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without
any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an
hour.
But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and
urged on by Mr. Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he
reached the door of Manor Farm, where he paused not an instant till he
was snug in bed.--CHARLES DICKENS.