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- Чарльз Диккенс
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- Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба
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- Стр. 820/859
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‘
I
ain
’
t
,
’
said
the
fat
boy
,
falling
on
his
knees
as
his
master
seized
him
by
the
collar
.
‘
I
ain
’
t
drunk
.
’
‘
Then
you
’
re
mad
;
that
’
s
worse
.
Call
the
waiters
,
’
said
the
old
gentleman
.
‘
I
ain
’
t
mad
;
I
’
m
sensible
,
’
rejoined
the
fat
boy
,
beginning
to
cry
.
‘
Then
,
what
the
devil
did
you
run
sharp
instruments
into
Mr
.
Pickwick
’
s
legs
for
?
’
inquired
Wardle
angrily
.
‘
He
wouldn
’
t
look
at
me
,
’
replied
the
boy
.
‘
I
wanted
to
speak
to
him
.
’
‘
What
did
you
want
to
say
?
’
asked
half
a
dozen
voices
at
once
.
The
fat
boy
gasped
,
looked
at
the
bedroom
door
,
gasped
again
,
and
wiped
two
tears
away
with
the
knuckle
of
each
of
his
forefingers
.
‘
What
did
you
want
to
say
?
’
demanded
Wardle
,
shaking
him
.
‘
Stop
!
’
said
Mr
.
Pickwick
;
‘
allow
me
.
What
did
you
wish
to
communicate
to
me
,
my
poor
boy
?
’
