The Birmingham age-herald., 1911-12-03
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 confinement he pleaded with them elo- quentlS.
 In short, MT. Jingle so injured MT. Pick wick's best feelings, and so often injured Mir PickwiclSs best friends, that he, to whom animosity and revenge were en- tirely foreign, pledged himself to hunt Mr. Jingle down. And Sam Weller, whose professional pride had been hurt by MT. Job Trotters success as a strategist' pledged himself to hunt that person down for his share.
 MT. Pickwlck was not narrow, how ever, and did not permit the hunt to occupy him to the exclusion Of lighter matters. He picked social pleasures where he found them, and notably so in Ding ley Dell, the country estate of his old friend Wardle, where there existed that benign atmosphere of ham and veal pies, potted pigeons, giant roasts of beef, and noble and ever ready tankards of aie and bowls of punch that now. in these days of railroads, unhappily has passed from the scene.
 It was an atmosphere calculated to en- rich MT. Pickwick's philosophy and em- phasize his humanity till benevolence and happiness radiated from him and warmed all his surroundings, the genial rays reaching even the lard incased heart of MT. Wardle's Fat Boy Joe, who divided his time with strict impartiality between eating and sleeping.
 Mir. Pickwicks attitude toward human- ity and punch was equally -unsYspicious. There was no finer sight in tic world than to see him, sitting on greensward among his friends with his superb legs stretched out before him, the remnants of an excellent luncheon scattered around him, and a large stone bottle containing punch within his reach.
 At such times, though the soul of gen erosity, he was prone to hold the jug absentmindedly, while he proposed and drank toasts, exercising immense care not to forget any, even the humblest, friend. Sometimes, after drinking a reasonable number of toasts, MT Pickwick would become greatly alarmed lest the punch contain orange peel, which always dis- agreed with him. This demanded some extremely careful sampling before he could assure hmself as he did usually, that there was no trace of orange peel in it, and that, therefore, he could take more safely
 At one of these outdoor picnics Mir Pickwick felt himself called on so i'm peratively to propose toasts, owing to the quite superior merits of the punch, that he became worn out by his exer- ,,,I5 ta .-1A The party, desiring to shoot, left him there in utter peace, in which no dolrbt he would have remained indefinitely, had not the owner of the land arrived
 He was Captain Boldwig, a little man and fierce man. "Who are you, you rascal?" sroared Captain Boldwig, polk ing MT. Pickwicks s tender form with a big stick.
 "Cold punch" murmured Mr. Pick wick, as he sank to sleep again.
 Wheel him to the poundr' roared Captain Boldwig to his gardener.
 The gardener loaded the unconscious form of the scientist into wheeIbar- row and deposited him in the village pound, where he awoke with infinite amazement, surrounded by villagers who expressed their pleasure with loud noises.
 "Where are my friends?" gasped the injured gentleman.
 You aint go no friends Hurrahrr answered the populace, and began to throw vegetables and other rustic mis- siles at the benevolent bald head. MT. Pickwick might have been buried under vegetables like another Babe in the Woods, had not Sam Weller ar rived In time to assault the enemy, and especially to assault the town beadie so violently that he was able to re- port that he had quite spoiled him. Safe again in the hands of his friends,