nsternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid
and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by
which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should
they--Hark! there they were. What could have made them so late? A
strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the
kitchen, whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather
more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.

Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked
completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking
his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the
blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by
any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with
a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange
gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle,
supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking
destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest
the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk
into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery
that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his
expressive face.

'Is anything the matter?' inquired the three ladies.

'Nothing the matter,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'We--we're--all right.--I
say, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we?'

'I should think so,' replied the jolly host.--'My dears, here's my
friend Mr. Jingle--Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon--little
visit.'

'Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, Sir?' inquired Emily, with
great anxiety.

'Nothing the matter, ma'am,' replied the stranger. 'Cricket
dinner--glorious party--capital songs--old port--claret--good--very
good--wine, ma'am--wine.'

'It wasn't the wine,' murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. 'It was
the salmon.' (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

'Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?' inquired Emma. 'Two of the boys
will carry the gentlemen upstairs.'

'I won't go to bed,' said Mr. Winkle firmly.

'No living boy shall carry me,' said Mr. Pickwick stoutly; and he went
on smiling as before. 'Hurrah!' gasped Mr. Winkle faintly.

'Hurrah!' echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on
the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the
kitchen. At this humorous