officers; one of whom—the fat crier of Eatanswill—was ringing an enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, while Mr. Horatio Fizkin, and the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of heads that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a storm of groans, and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have done honour to an earthquake.
"There's Winkle," said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve.
"Where?" said Mr. Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had fortunately kept in his pocket hitherto.
"There," said Mr. Tupman, "on the top of that house." And there, sure enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pott, comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of recognition—a compliment which Mr. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to the lady.
The proceedings had not yet commenced; and as an inactive crowd is generally disposed to be jocose, this very innocent, action was sufficient to awaken their facetiousness.
"Oh you wicked old rascal," cried one voice, "looking arter the girls, are you?"
"Oh you wenerable sinner," cried another.
"Putting on his spectacles to look at a married 'ooman!" said a third.
"I see him a winkin' at her, with his wicked old eye," shouted a fourth.
"Look arter your wife, Pott," bellowed a fifth;—and then there was a roar of laughter.
As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr. Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature; and as they moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent lady, Mr. Pickwick's indignation was excessive; but as silence was proclaimed at the moment, he contented himself by scorching
