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Pickwick Bicycle Club Magazine Volume 14 No.1 March 2017

The Story Behind the Front Cover illustration

Chapter XIX (condensed extract) Pickwick Papers

Mr. Pickwick was drinking punch with Tracy
Tupman, Mr. Wardle and Sam Weller and took a
number of glasses from the stone bottle to see
whether there was any orange-peel in it. Having
established there was none, he continued to
consume more, and drink the health of absent
friends. This constant succession of glasses had a
considerable effect on Mr. Pickwick. Yielding by
degree to the influence of the exciting liquid,
rendered more so by the heat he desired to
recollect a song, which he recalled from his
infancy. This proved abortive so he drank some more to stimulate his memory. He began to
forget how to articulate any words at all. After rising to his legs to address the company
he shared, he fell into a wheelbarrow and fast asleep simultaneously. His colleagues
decided to leave him in the barrow and collect him on their return. So away they went
leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably in the shade of the oak tree.

Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and blue surtout, who,
when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in company with a black rattan
stick with a brass ferrule, Hunt the gardener, and Wilkins a sub-gardener with meek
faces. Giving instructions about maintaining the area as they walked, they had reached the
oak tree when Wilkins interrupted Captain Boldwig’s thoughts – “What is it Wilkins?” “ I
beg your pardon, sir – but I think there have been trespassers here today.” “They have
been dining here, I think, sir.” “Why confound their audacity, so they have,” said Captain
Boldwig, seeing the crumbs and other fragments on the ground. “ I wish I had the
vagabonds here!” said the Captain, clenching his thick stick. “Beg your pardon,” said
Wilkins, “but …..“ “But what?” roared the Captain as his eyes encountered the wheelbarrow
and Mr. Pickwick. “Who are you, you rascal?” said the Captain, administering several pokes
to Mr. Pickwick’s body with the thick stick. “What’s your name?”
“Cold punch,” murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sunk into sleep again.