'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 feat he laughed outright.
'Let's--have--'nother--bottle,'cried Mr.Winkle, commencing in a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one.