“You’re a good fellow, Pickwick,” said the host, grasping his hand. “Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck⁠—make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready?”

Mr. Pickwick’s mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative.

They jumped into the gig. “Give her her head, Tom,” cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart-ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.

“How much are they ahead?” shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.