extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swing over a glover's door.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Pickwick with great alacrity; for, now that the excitement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs.
"Allow me the honour," said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his dexter hand, and aspirating the h.
"With much pleasure, sir," said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very long and solemn shake, he got into bed again.
"My name is Smangle, sir," said the man with the whiskers.
"Oh," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Mine is Mivins," said the man in the stockings.
"I am delighted to hear it, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Hem," coughed Mr. Smangle.
"Did you speak, sir?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"No, I did not, sir," said Mr. Smangle.
"I thought you did, sir," said Mr. Pickwick.
All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make natters still more comfortable, Mr. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many times that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman; which sentiment, indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no wise supposed to understand them.
"Are you going through the Court, sir?" inquired Mr. Smangle.
"Through the what?" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Through the Court—Portugal Street—the Court for the Relief of———you know."
"Oh, no," replied Mr. Pickwick. "No, I am not."
"Going out, perhaps?" suggested Mivins.
"I fear not," replied Mr. Pickwick. "I refuse to pay some damages, and am here in consequence."
"Ah," said Mr. Smangle, "paper has been my ruin."
"A stationer, I presume, sir?" said Mr. Pickwick, innocently.
