Upon this, Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber ball, and rushing into the front room, arrived at one window just as Mr. Pickwick threw up the other, when the first object that met the gaze of both, was Mr. Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair.

“Watchman,” shouted Dowler furiously, “stop him⁠—hold him⁠—keep him tight⁠—shut him in, till I come down. I’ll cut his throat⁠—give me a knife⁠—from ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock⁠—I will!” And breaking from the shrieking landlady, and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husband seized a small supper-knife, and tore into the street.