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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 277/859
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They
searched
every
nook
and
corner
round
,
together
and
separately
;
they
shouted
,
whistled
,
laughed
,
called
—
and
all
with
the
same
result
.
Mr
.
Pickwick
was
not
to
be
found
.
After
some
hours
of
fruitless
search
,
they
arrived
at
the
unwelcome
conclusion
that
they
must
go
home
without
him
.
Meanwhile
Mr
.
Pickwick
had
been
wheeled
to
the
pound
,
and
safely
deposited
therein
,
fast
asleep
in
the
wheel
-
barrow
,
to
the
immeasurable
delight
and
satisfaction
not
only
of
all
the
boys
in
the
village
,
but
three
-
fourths
of
the
whole
population
,
who
had
gathered
round
,
in
expectation
of
his
waking
.
If
their
most
intense
gratification
had
been
awakened
by
seeing
him
wheeled
in
,
how
many
hundredfold
was
their
joy
increased
when
,
after
a
few
indistinct
cries
of
‘
Sam
!
’
he
sat
up
in
the
barrow
,
and
gazed
with
indescribable
astonishment
on
the
faces
before
him
.
A
general
shout
was
of
course
the
signal
of
his
having
woke
up
;
and
his
involuntary
inquiry
of
‘
What
’
s
the
matter
?
’
occasioned
another
,
louder
than
the
first
,
if
possible
.
‘
Here
’
s
a
game
!
’
roared
the
populace
.
‘
Where
am
I
?
’
exclaimed
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
In
the
pound
,
’
replied
the
mob
.
‘
How
came
I
here
?
What
was
I
doing
?
Where
was
I
brought
from
?
’
‘
Boldwig
!
Captain
Boldwig
!
’
was
the
only
reply
.
‘
Let
me
out
,
’
cried
Mr
.
Pickwick
.
‘
Where
’
s
my
servant
?
Where
are
my
friends
?
’
‘
You
ain
’
t
got
no
friends
.
Hurrah
!
’
Then
there
came
a
turnip
,
then
a
potato
,
and
then
an
egg
;
with
a
few
other
little
tokens
of
the
playful
disposition
of
the
many
-
headed
.
