carriage, which was driving swiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write 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 the third 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 up on the box. "Give my compliments—Mr. Veller's compliments—to the Justice, and tell him I've spiled his beadle, and that, if he'll svear in a new 'un, I'll come back agin to-morrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller."
"I'll give directions for the commencement of an action for false imprisonment 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 they might turn round on some of us, and and say we had taken too much cold punch."
Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick's face; the smile extended into a laugh; the laugh into a roar; the roar became general. So, to keep up their good humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, and ordered a glass of brandy and water all round, with a magnum of extra strength for Mr. Samuel Weller.
