“Come on,” said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. “Come on—all four on you”—Chap. i.
“What! introducing his friend!”—Chap. ii.
Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory summerset with remarkable agility—Chap. iv.
The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing with the chaise whip in his hand—Chap. v.
There was a scream as of an individual—not a rook—in corporeal anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm—Chap. vii.
Mr. Wardle looked on, in silent wonder—Chap. vii.
Old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman—Chap. viii.
Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy—Chap. viii.
Sam stole a look at the inquirer—Chap. x.
“God bless me, what’s the matter”—Chap. xi.
“Take this little villain away,” said the agonised Mr. Pickwick—Chap. xii.
“He has come out,” said little Mr. Perker, greatly excited; the more so as their position did not enable them to see what was going forward—Chap. xiii.
The chair was an ugly old gentleman; and what was more, he was winking at Tom Smart—Chap. xiv.
“Permit me to introduce my friends—Mr. Tupman—Mr. Winkle—Mr. Snodgrass”—Chap. xv.
The heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude, confidently supposed by the two bystanders to have been intended as a posture of self-defence—Chap. xv.
Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, . . . when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in mulberry-coloured livery—Chap. xvi.
The door was just going to be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive boarder, who had been peeping between the hinges, set up a fearful screaming—Chap. xvi.
Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and open it flew, disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside, and shaking with apprehension from head to foot—Chap. xvii.
“Who are you, you rascal?” said the captain, administering several pokes to Mr. Pickwick’s body with the thick stick. “What’s your name?”—Chap. xix.
“You just come away,” said Mr. Weller. “Battledore and Shuttlecock’s a wery good game, when you an’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores”—Chap. xx.
“Heyling!” said the old man wildly. “My boy, Heyling, my dear boy, look, look!” gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the spot where the young man was struggling for life—Chap. xxi.
Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their “back hair”—Chap. xxii.
Mr. Pickwick no sooner put on his spectacles, than he at once recognised in the future Mrs. Magnus the lady into whose room he had so unwarrantably intruded on the previous night—Chap. xxiv.
A compliment which Mr. Weller Returned by knocking him down out of hand: having previously, with the utmost consideration, knocked down a chairman for him to lie upon—Chap. xxiv.
The kitchen door opened, and in walked Mr. Joe Trotter—Chap. xxv.
Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word—Chap. xxviii.
Before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them—Chap. xxviii.
Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange unearthly figure—Chap. xxix.
Mr. Pickwick . . . . 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—Chap. xxx.
A little fierce woman bounced into the room, all in a tremble with passion, and pale with rage—Chap. xxxii.
With a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to “fire away”—Chap. xxxiii.
Before Sam could interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a remote corner of the room, and attacked the Reverend Mr. Stiggins with manual dexterity—Chap. xxxiii.
An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation—Chap. xxxiv.
Poor Mr. Pickwick! he had never played with three thorough-paced female card-players before—Chap. xxxv.
He no sooner heard the horrible threat of the valorous Dowler, than he bounced out of the sedan—Chap. xxxvi.
Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with the cocked-hat and stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table—Chap. xxxvii.
Mr Bob Sawyer’s boy . . . peeped through the glass door, and thus listened and looked on at the same time—Chap. xxxviii.
“Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, sir,” said Mr. Winkle—Chap. xxxviii.
“My dear,” said Mr. Pickwick, Looking over the wall, and catching sight of Arabella on the other side. “Don’t be frightened, my dear, ’tis only me”—Chap. xxxix.
Mr. Pickwick sitting for his portrait—Chap. xl.
Letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood perfectly fixed and immovable with astonishment—Chap. xlii.
With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick’s head—Chap. xli.
Sam, having been formally introduced . . . . as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle Savage, was treated with marked distinction—Chap. xliii.
“Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock?” inquired Mr. Weller of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night—Chap. xliv.
Mr. Stiggins, getting on his legs as well as he could, proceeded to deliver an edifying discourse for the benefit of the company—Chap. xlv.
Mrs. Bardell screamed violently; Tommy roared; Mrs. Cluffink shrunk within herself and Mrs. Sanders made off without more ado—Chap. xlvi.
Mr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his own senses—Chap. xlvii.
These attentions were directed, not towards him, but to a young lady who just then appeared at the foot of the steps—Chap. xlix.
Mr. Bob Sawyer was seated: not in the dickey, but on the roof of the chaise—Chap. l.
Snatching up a meal-sack, effectually stopped the conflict by drawing it over the head and shoulders of the mighty Pott—Chap. ii.
Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced—Chap. l.
It was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. Weller . . . . immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse-trough full of water, and holding it there until he was half suffocated—Chap. lii.
“I say insolent familiarity, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, turning upon Fogg with a fierceness of gesture which caused that person to retreat towards the door with great expedition—Chap. liii.
“I say, how nice you look!”—Chap. liv.
The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly lifted his hand—Chap. lv.
The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman’s lips, when footsteps were heard ascending the stairs—Chap. lvi.
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