‘Here I am! but I hain’t a willin,’ replied a voice. It was the fat boy’s.
‘Let me get at him, Pickwick,’ cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill-starred youth. ‘He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman!’ (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) ‘Let me get at him!’
‘Don’t let him!’ screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible.
‘I won’t be held!’ cried the old man. ‘Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!’
It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick’s face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion, while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the females congregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man entered to announce that the gig was ready.
‘Don’t let him go alone!’ screamed the females. ‘He’ll kill somebody!’
‘I’ll go with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘You’re a good fellow, Pickwick,’ said the host, grasping his hand. ‘Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck — make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready?’
Mr. Pickwick’s mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative.
They jumped into the gig. ‘Give her her head, Tom,’ cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart-ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.
‘How much are they ahead?’ shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.
‘Not above three-quarters of an hour,’ was everybody’s reply. ‘Chaise-and-four directly! — out with ‘em! Put up the gig afterwards.’
‘Now, boys!’ cried the landlord — ‘chaise-and-four out — make haste — look alive there!’
Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran to and fro; the horses’ hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle.
‘Now then! — is that chaise coming out tonight?’ cried Wardle.
‘Coming down the yard now, Sir,’ replied the hostler.
Out came the chaise — in went the horses — on sprang the boys — in got the travellers.
‘Mind — the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!’ shouted Wardle.
‘Off with you!’
The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.
‘Pretty situation,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment’s time for reflection. ‘Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise — strange horses — fifteen miles an hour — and twelve o’clock at night!’
For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.
‘We’re sure to catch them, I think,’ said he.
‘Hope so,’ replied his companion.
‘Fine night,’ said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining brightly.
‘So much the worse,’ returned Wardle; ‘for they’ll have had all the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will have gone down in another hour.’
‘It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won’t it?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘I dare say it will,’ replied his friend dryly.
Mr. Pickwick’s temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the postboy on the leader.
‘Yo-yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ went the first boy.
‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ went the second.
‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.
‘Yo-yo-yo-yoe!’ shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.
‘What’s the matter?’ inquired Mr. Pickwick.
‘There’s a gate here,’ replied old Wardle. ‘We shall hear something of the fugitives.’
After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.
‘How long is it since a postchaise went through here?’ inquired Mr. Wardle.
‘How long?’
‘Ah!’
‘Why, I don’t rightly know. It worn’t a long time ago, nor it worn’t a short time ago — just between the two, perhaps.’
‘Has any chaise been by at all?’
‘Oh, yes, there’s been a Shay by.’
‘How long ago, my friend,’ interposed Mr. Pickwick; ‘an hour?’
‘Ah, I dare say it might be,’ replied the man.
‘Or two hours?’ inquired the post — boy on the wheeler.
‘Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was,’ returned the old man doubtfully.
‘Drive on, boys,’ cried the testy old gentleman; ‘don’t waste any more time with that old idiot!’
‘Idiot!’ exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. ‘No — not much o’ that either; you’ve lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won’t catch t’other shay this side Mich’lmas, old short-and-fat.’ And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, reentered his house, and bolted the door after him.
Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark, heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against