“Mus’r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po’-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn’t stop ’em; so I run off to tell ’ee.”

“I paid his expenses!” said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. “He’s got ten pounds of mine!⁠—stop him!⁠—he’s swindled me!⁠—I won’t bear it!⁠—I’ll have justice, Pickwick!⁠—I won’t stand it!” and with sundry incoherent exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun round and round the apartment, in a transport of frenzy.

“Lord preserve us!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. “He’s gone mad! What shall we do?”

“Do!” said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sentence. “Put the horse in the gig! I’ll get a chaise at the Lion, and follow ’em instantly. Where?”⁠—he exclaimed, as the man ran out to execute the commission⁠—“where’s that villain, Joe?”