a bucket, and throw it all over her; it'll do her good, and she richly deserves it."
"Ugh, you brute!" ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. "Poor dear." And with sundry ejaculations, of "Come now, there's a dear—drink a little of this—it'll do you good—don't give way so—there's a love," &c., &c., the landlady, assisted by a chamber-maid, proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavouring to ferment themselves into hysterics.
"Coach is ready, sir," said Sam, appearing at the door.
"Come along," cried Wardle. "I'll carry her down stairs."
At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence.
The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed—
"Boots," said he, "get me an officer."
"Stay, stay," said little Mr. Perker. "Consider, sir, consider."
"I'll not consider," replied Jingle. "She's her own mistress—see who dares to take her away—unless she wishes it."
"I won't be taken away," murmured the spinster aunt. "I don't wish it." (Here there was a frightful relapse.)
"My dear sir," said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart: "My dear sir, we're in a very awkward situation. It's a distressing case—very; I never knew one more so; but really, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise."
There was a short pause.
"What kind of compromise would you recommend?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.
