'What will you take, sir?
Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir?
I can recommend the ale, sir; or perhaps you'd like to taste the porter, sir?
Allow me to have the felicity of hanging up your nightcap, Sir.' With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr.
Pickwick's head, and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly impressed with the belief that he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued to hammer away at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable.
Taking a man's nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it on the head of an unknown gentleman, of dirty exterior, however ingenious a witticism in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the denomination of practical jokes.

Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr.Pickwick, without the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence.
'Now,' said Mr.Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the expenditure of so much energy, 'come on--both of you--both of you!' With this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science.
It might have been Mr.Pickwick's very unexpected gallantry, or it might have been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and fallen all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries.

Touched they were; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit man-slaughter, as Mr.Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright.
'Well, you're a trump, and I like you all the better for it,' said the Zephyr.

'Now jump into bed again, or you'll catch the rheumatics.

No malice, I hope ?' said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers which sometimes swings 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 H-onour,' 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.
All this was very genteel and pleasant; and, to make matters still more comfortable, Mr.Smangle assured Mr.Pickwick a great many more 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.