his knife and fork, and was looking as if he were about to sink into the ground without further notice.
"Ah!" cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five and twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between him and the table, "regular mangle—Baker's patent—not a crease in my coat, after all this squeezing—might have got up my linen' as I came along-ha! ha! not a bad idea, that—queer thing to have it mangled when it's upon one, though—trying process—very."
With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians, the identical form and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle.
The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter's proffered hand, when his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr. Pickwick.
"Hallo!" said Jingle. "Quite forgot—no directions to postilion—give 'em at once—back in a minute."
"The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall," said Mrs. Leo Hunter.
"No, no—I'll do it—shan't be long—back in no time," replied Jingle. With these words he disappeared among the crowd.
"Will you allow me to ask you, ma'am," said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising from his seat, "who that young man is, and where he resides!"
"He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick," said Mrs. Leo Hunter, "to whom I very much want to introduce you. The Count will be delighted with him."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. "His residence—"
"Is at present at the Angel at Bury."
"At Bury?"
"At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pickwick, you are not going to leave us: surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot think of going so soon."
