How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have suffered, no one can tell, had not a 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 swear in a new ’un, I’ll come back again tomorrow and spile him. Drive on, old feller.”