The Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club, v. 1 (of 2)

by Charles Dickens

  CHAPTER XIX

  _A Pleasant Day, with an Unpleasant Termination_

  The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personalcomfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had beenmaking to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it, nodoubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season.Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble,with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one whowatched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuousair of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of theirapproaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively andblithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon theearth. But we grow affecting; let us proceed.

  In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning--sofine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of anEnglish summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill andmoorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep richgreen; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingledwith the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The skywas cloudless; the sun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds,and hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottagegardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint,sparkled in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everythingbore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colours had yetfaded from the dye.

  Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were threePickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr.Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver,pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall,raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy: eachbearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace ofpointers.

  "I say," whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps,"they don't suppose we're going to kill game enough to fill those bags,do they?"

  "Fill them!" exclaimed old Wardle. "Bless you, yes! You shall fill one,and I the other; and when we've done with them, the pockets of ourshooting-jackets will hold as much more."

  Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to thisobservation; but he thought within himself, that if the party remainedin the open air, until he had filled one of the bags, they stood aconsiderable chance of catching colds in their heads.

  "Hi, Juno, lass--hi, old girl; down, Daph, down," said Wardle,caressing the dogs. "Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin?"

  The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with somesurprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished hiscoat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr.Tupman, who was holding his as if he were afraid of it--as there is noearthly reason to doubt he really was.

  "My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,"said Wardle, noticing the look. "Live and learn, you know. They'll begood shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle's pardon, though;he has had some practice."

  Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment ofthe compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun,in his modest confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he mustinevitably have shot himself dead upon the spot.

  "You mustn't handle your piece in that 'ere way, when you come to havethe charge in it, sir," said the tall gamekeeper, gruffly, "or I'mdamned if you won't make cold meat of some of us."

  Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered its position, and in sodoing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty sharp contact with Mr.Weller's head.

  "Hallo!" said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, andrubbing his temple. "Hallo, sir! if you comes it this vay, you'll fillone o' them bags, and something to spare, at one fire."

  Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and then triedto look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frownedmajestically.

  "Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?"inquired Wardle.

  "Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o'clock, sir."

  "That's not Sir Geoffrey's land, is it?"

  "No, sir; but it's close by it. It's Captain Boldwig's land; butthere'll be nobody to interrupt us, and there's a fine bit of turfthere."

  "Very well," said old Wardle. "Now the sooner we're off the better.Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?"

  Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the moreespecially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle's life andlimbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turnback, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves. It was, therefore,with a very rueful air that he replied--

  "Why, I suppose I must."

  "An't the gentleman a shot, sir?" inquired the long gamekeeper.

  "No," replied Wardle; "and he's lame besides."

  "I should very much like to go," said Mr. Pickwick, "very much."

  There was a short pause of commiseration.

  "There's a barrow t'other side the hedge," said the boy. "If thegentleman's servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us,and we could lift it over the stiles, and that."

  "The wery thing," said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuchas he ardently longed to see the sport. "The wery thing. Well said,Smallcheck; I'll have it out in a minute."

  But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protestedagainst the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in abarrow, as a gross violation of all established rules and precedents.

  It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeperhaving been coaxed and fee'd, and having, moreover, eased his mind by"punching" the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested theuse of the machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the partyset; Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwickin the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.

  "Stop, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half across the firstfield.

  "What's the matter now?" said Wardle.

  "I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another step," said Mr.Pickwick, resolutely, "unless Winkle carries that gun of his in adifferent manner."

  "How _am_ I to carry it?" said the wretched Winkle.

  "Carry it with the muzzle to the ground," replied Mr. Pickwick.

  "It's so unsportsman-like," reasoned Winkle.

  "I don't care whether it's unsportsman-like or not," replied Mr.Pickwick; "I am not going to be shot in a wheelbarrow, for the sake ofappearances, to please anybody."

  "I know the gentleman 'll put that 'ere charge into somebody afore he'sdone," growled the long man.

  "Well, well--I don't mind," said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stockuppermost;--"there."

  "Anythin' for a quiet life," said Mr. Weller; and on they went again.

  "Stop!" said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards further.

  "What now?" said Wardle.

  "That gun of Tupman's is not safe: I know it isn't," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "_I won't suffer this barrow to be moved another stepunless Winkle carries that gun of his in a different manner._"]

  "Eh? What! not safe?" said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm.

  "Not as you are carrying it," said Mr. Pickwick. "I am very sorry tomake any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless youcarry it as Winkle does his."

  "I think you had better, sir," said the long gamekeeper, "or you'requite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else."

  Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in theposition required, and the party moved on again; the two amateursmarching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates at a royalfuneral.

  The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancingstealthily a single pace, stopped too.

  "What's the matter with the dogs' legs?" whispered Mr. Winkle. "Howqueer they're standing."

 
"Hush, can't you?" replied Wardle, softly. "Don't you see, they'remaking a point?"

  "Making a point!" said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expectedto discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which thesagacious animals were calling special attention to. "Making a point!What are they pointing at?"

  "Keep your eyes open," said Wardle, not heeding the question in theexcitement of the moment. "Now then."

  There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as ifhe had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns;--the smokeswept quickly away over the field, and curled into the air.

  "Where are they?" said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highestexcitement, turning round and round in all directions. "Where are they?Tell me when to fire. Where are they--where are they?"

  "Where are they?" said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which thedogs had deposited at his feet. "Why, here they are."

  "No, no; I mean the others," said the bewildered Winkle.

  "Far enough off, by this time," replied Wardle, coolly re-loading hisgun.

  "We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes," saidthe long gamekeeper. "If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhapshe'll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time they rise."

  "Ha! ha! ha!" roared Mr. Weller.

  "Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower's confusion andembarrassment.

  "Sir?"

  "Don't laugh."

  "Certainly not, sir." So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Wellercontorted his features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusiveamusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereupon burst into aboisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, whowanted a pretext for turning round, to hide his own merriment.

  "Bravo, old fellow!" said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; "you fired that time,at all events."

  "Oh yes," replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. "I let it off."

  "Well done. You'll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Veryeasy, an't it?"

  "Yes, it's very easy," said Mr. Tupman. "How it hurts one's shoulder,though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea that these smallfire-arms kicked so."

  "Ah," said the old gentleman, smiling; "you'll get used to it in time.Now then--all ready--all right with the barrow there?"

  "All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

  "Come along then."

  "Hold hard, sir," said Sam, raising the barrow.

  "Ay, ay," replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly as need be.

  "Keep that barrow back now," cried Wardle when it had been hoisted overa stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in itonce more.

  "All right, sir," replied Mr. Weller, pausing.

  "Now, Winkle," said the old gentleman, "follow me softly, and don't betoo late this time."

  "Never fear," said Mr. Winkle. "Are they pointing?"

  "No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly." On they crept, and veryquietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performanceof some very intricate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentallyfired, at the most critical moment, over the boy's head, exactly in thevery spot where the tall man's brain would have been, had he been thereinstead.

  "Why, what on earth did you do that for?" said old Wardle, as the birdsflew unharmed away.

  "I never saw such a gun in my life," replied poor Mr. Winkle, lookingat the lock, as if that would do any good. "It goes off of its ownaccord. It _will_ do it."

  "Will do it!" echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in hismanner. "I wish it would kill something of its own accord."

  "It'll do that afore long, sir," observed the tall man, in a low,prophetic voice.

  "What do you mean by that observation, sir?" inquired Mr. Winkle,angrily.

  "Never mind, sir, never mind," replied the long gamekeeper; "I've nofamily myself, sir; and this here boy's mother will get somethinghandsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he's killed on his land. Load again,sir, load again."

  "Take away his gun," cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow,horror-stricken at the long man's dark insinuations. "Take away hisgun, do you hear, somebody?"

  Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr. Winkle, afterdarting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, andproceeded onwards with the rest.

  We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state thatMr. Tupman's mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudence anddeliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by no meansdetracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman, on allmatters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwick beautifullyobserves, it has somehow or other happened, from time immemorial, thatmany of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been perfect lightsof science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reducethem to practice.

  Mr. Tupman's process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, wasextremely simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man ofgenius, he had once observed that the two great points to be obtainedwere--first, to discharge his piece without injury to himself, and,secondly, to do so without danger to the by-standers;--obviously, thebest thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of firing at all,was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air.

  On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on openinghis eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling wounded tothe ground. He was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on hisinvariable success, when that gentleman advanced towards him, andgrasped him warmly by the hand.

  "Tupman," said the old gentleman, "you singled out that particularbird?"

  "No," said Mr. Tupman--"no."

  "You did," said Wardle. "I saw you do it--I observed you pick himout--I noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and I willsay this, that the best shot in existence could not have done it morebeautifully. You are an older hand at this, than I thought you, Tupman;you have been out before."

  It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of self-denial,that he never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to thecontrary; and from that time forth, his reputation was established. Itis not the only reputation that has been acquired as easily, nor aresuch fortunate circumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, withoutproducing any material results worthy of being noted down; sometimesexpending his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimmingalong so near the surface of the ground as to place the lives of thetwo dogs on a rather uncertain and precarious tenure. As a display offancy shooting, it was extremely varied and curious; as an exhibitionof firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, perhapsa failure. It is an established axiom, that "every bullet has itsbillet." If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winklewere unfortunate foundlings, deprived of their natural rights, castloose upon the world, and billeted nowhere.

  "Well," said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wipingthe streams of perspiration from his jolly red face; "smoking day,isn't it?"

  "It is, indeed," replied Mr. Pickwick. "The sun is tremendously hot,even to me. I don't know how you must feel it."

  "Why," said the old gentleman, "pretty hot. It's past twelve, though.You see that green hill there?"

  "Certainly."

  "That's the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there's the boywith the basket, punctual as clockwork!"

  "So he is," said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. "Good boy, that. I'llgive him a shilling presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away."

  "Hold on, sir," said Mr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect ofrefreshments. "Out of the way, young leathers. If you walley myprecious life don't upset me, as the gen'l'm'n said to the driver whenthey was a carryin' him to Tyburn." And quickening his pace to a sharprun, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the green hill, shot himdexterously out by the very side of the basket, and proceeded to unpackit with the utmost despatch.

  "Weal pie," said Mr. Weller
, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatableson the grass. "Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the ladyas made it, and is quite sure it an't kittens; and arter all though,where's the odds, when they're so like weal that the wery piementhemselves don't know the difference?"

  "Don't they, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Not they, sir," replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. "I lodged in thesame house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was--reg'larclever chap, too--make pies out o' anything, he could. 'What a numbero' cats you keep, Mr. Brooks,' says I, when I'd got intimate with him.'Ah,' says he, 'I do--a good many,' says he. 'You must be wery fondo' cats,' says I. 'Other people is,' says he, a vinkin' at me; 'theyan't in season till the winter though,' says he. 'Not in season!'says I. 'No,' says he, 'fruits is in, cats is out.' 'Why, what do youmean?' says I. 'Mean?' says he. 'That I'll never be a party to thecombination o' the butchers, to keep up the prices o' meat,' says he.'Mr. Weller,' says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering inmy ear--'don't mention this here agin--but it's the seasonin' as doesit. They're all made o' them noble animals,' says he, a pointin' to awery nice little tabby kitten, 'and I seasons 'em for beef-steak, weal,or kidney, 'cordin' to the demand. And more than that,' says he, 'I canmake a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on 'em amutton, at a minute's notice, just as the market changes, and appetiteswary!'"

  "He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam," said Mr.Pickwick, with a slight shudder.

  "Just was, sir," replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation ofemptying the basket, "and the pies was beautiful. Tongue; well that's awery good thing when it an't a woman's. Bread--knuckle o' ham, reg'larpicter--cold beef in slices, wery good. What's in them stone jars,young touch-and-go?"

  "Beer in this one," replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a coupleof large stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap--"coldpunch in t'other."

  "And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it altogether," saidMr. Weller, surveying his arrangement of the repast with greatsatisfaction. "Now, gen'l'm'n, 'fall on,' as the English said to theFrench when they fixed bagginets."

  It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield fulljustice to the meal; and as little pressing did it require to induceMr. Weller, the long gamekeeper, and the two boys to station themselveson the grass at a little distance, and do good execution upon a decentproportion of the viands. An old oak afforded a pleasant shelter to thegroup, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow land, intersected withluxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay spread out belowthem.

  "This is delightful--thoroughly delightful!" said Mr. Pickwick, theskin of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, withexposure to the sun.

  "So it is: so it is, old fellow," replied Wardle. "Come; a glass ofpunch?"

  "With great pleasure," said Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whosecountenance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of thereply.

  "Good," said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. "Very good. I'll takeanother. Cool; very cool. Come, gentlemen," continued Mr. Pickwick,still retaining his hold upon the jar, "a toast. Our friends at DingleyDell."

  The toast was drunk with loud acclamations.

  "I'll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again," said Mr.Winkle, who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. "I'll put astuffed partridge on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginningat a short distance, and lengthening it by degrees. I understand it'scapital practice."

  "I know a gen'l'man, sir," said Mr. Weller, "as did that, and begun attwo yards; but he never tried it on agin; for he blowed the bird rightclean away at the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on himarterwards."

  "Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.

  "Sir?" replied Mr. Weller.

  "Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes till they are called for."

  "Cert'nly, sir."

  Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-canhe was raising to his lips with such exquisiteness, that the two boyswent into spontaneous convulsions, and even the long man condescendedto smile.

  "Well, that certainly is most capital cold punch," said Mr. Pickwick,looking earnestly at the stone bottle; "and the day is extremely warm,and--Tupman, my dear friend, a glass of punch?"

  "With the greatest delight," replied Mr. Tupman; and having drank thatglass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was anyorange peel in the punch, because orange peel always disagreed withhim; and finding that there was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass tothe health of their absent friend, and then felt himself imperativelycalled upon to propose another in honour of the punch-compounder,unknown.

  This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect uponMr. Pickwick; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles,laughter played around his lips, and good-humoured merriment twinkledin his eye. Yielding by degrees to the influence of the excitingliquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick expressed a strongdesire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, and theattempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memory with moreglasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contrary effect;for, from forgetting the words of the song, he began to forget how toarticulate any words at all; and finally, after rising to his legs toaddress the company in an eloquent speech, he fell into the barrow, andfast asleep, simultaneously.

  The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectlyimpossible to awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussiontook place whether it would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel hismaster back again, or to leave him where he was until they should allbe ready to return. The latter course was at length decided on; and asthe further expedition was not to exceed an hour's duration, and asMr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was determinedto leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him ontheir return. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring mostcomfortably in the shade.

  That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until hisfriends came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of eveninghad fallen on the landscape, there appears no reasonable cause todoubt; always supposing that he had been suffered to remain there inpeace. But he was not suffered to remain there in peace. And this waswhat prevented him.

  Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchiefand blue surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about hisproperty, did it in company with a thick rattan stick with a brassferule, and a gardener and sub-gardener, with meek faces, to whom (thegardeners, not the stick) Captain Boldwig gave his orders with all duegrandeur and ferocity; for Captain Boldwig's wife's sister had marrieda Marquis, and the Captain's house was a villa, and his land "grounds,"and it was all very high, and mighty, and great.

  Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Boldwig,followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his sizeand importance would let him; and when he came near the oak tree,Captain Boldwig paused, and drew a long breath, and looked at theprospect as if he thought the prospect ought to be highly gratifiedat having him to take notice of it; and then he struck the groundemphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener.

  "Hunt," said Captain Boldwig.

  "Yes, sir," said the gardener.

  "Roll this place to-morrow morning--do you hear, Hunt?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And take care that you keep me this place in good order--do you hear,Hunt?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns,and all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear,Hunt; do you hear?"

  "I'll not forget it, sir."

  "I beg your pardon, sir," said the other man, advancing with his handto his hat.

  "Well, Wilkins, what's the matter with _you_?" said Captain Boldwig.

  "I beg your pardon, sir--but I think there have been trespassers hereto-day."

  "Ha!" said
the Captain, scowling around him.

  "Yes, sir--they have been dining here, I think, sir."

  "Why, confound their audacity, so they have," said Captain Boldwig, asthe crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye."They have actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had thevagabonds here!" said the Captain, clenching the thick stick.

  "I wish I had the vagabonds here," said the Captain, wrathfully.

  "Beg your pardon, sir," said Wilkins, "but----"

  "But what? Eh?" roared the Captain; and following the timid glance ofWilkins, his eyes encountered the wheelbarrow and Mr. Pickwick.

  "_Who are you, you rascal?_"]

  "Who are you, you rascal?" said the Captain, administering severalpokes to Mr. Pickwick's body with the thick stick. "What's your name?"

  "Cold punch," murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sunk to sleep again.

  "What?" demanded Captain Boldwig.

  No reply.

  "What did he say his name was?" asked the Captain.

  "Punch, I think, sir," replied Wilkins.

  "That's his impudence, that's his confounded impudence," said CaptainBoldwig. "He's only feigning to be asleep now," said the Captain, ina high passion. "He's drunk; he's a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away,Wilkins, wheel him away directly."

  "Where shall I wheel him to, sir?" inquired Wilkins, with greattimidity.

  "Wheel him to the Devil," replied Captain Boldwig.

  "Very well, sir," said Wilkins.

  "Stay," said the Captain.

  Wilkins stopped accordingly.

  "Wheel him," said the Captain, "wheel him to the Pound; and let us seewhether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall notbully me, he shall not bully me. Wheel him away."

  Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperiousmandate; and the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation,proceeded on his walk.

  Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when theyreturned, to find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken thewheelbarrow with him. It was the most mysterious and unaccountablething that was ever heard of. For a lame man to have got upon his legswithout any previous notice, and walked off, would have been mostextraordinary; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy barrow beforehim, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They searchedevery nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted,whistled, laughed, called--and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwickwas not to be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrivedat the unwelcome conclusion that they must go home without him.

  Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safelydeposited therein, fast asleep in the wheelbarrow, to the immeasurabledelight and satisfaction, not only of all the boys in the village,but three-fourths of the whole population, who had gathered round, inexpectation of his waking. If their most intense gratification had beenexcited by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold was their joyincreased when, after a few indistinct cries of "Sam!" he sat up in thebarrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces beforehim.

  A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up; and hisinvoluntary inquiry of "What's the matter?" occasioned another, louderthan 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 myfriends?"

  "You an't got no friends. Hurrah!" Then there came a turnip, then apotato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playfuldisposition of the many-headed.

  How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick mighthave suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was drivingswiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardleand Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes towrite it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick's side,and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded thethird and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle.

  "Run to the Justice's!" cried a dozen voices.

  "Ah, run avay," said Mr. Weller, jumping upon the box. "Give mycompliments--Mr. Veller's compliments--to the Justice, and tell himI've spiled his beadle, and that, if he'll swear in a new 'un, I'llcome back agin to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller."

  "I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for falseimprisonment against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,"said Mr. Pickwick, as soon as the carriage turned out of the town.

  "We were trespassing, it seems," said Wardle.

  "I don't care," said Mr. Pickwick, "I'll bring the action."

  "No, you won't," said Wardle.

  "I will, by--" but as there was a humorous expression in Wardle's face,Mr. Pickwick checked himself, and said: "Why not?"

  "Because," said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, "because theymight turn round on some of us, and say we had taken too much coldpunch."

  Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face; thesmile extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar becamegeneral. So to keep up their good humour, they stopped at the firstroadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy and waterall round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.