“Yo-yo-yo-yoe!” shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo-yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.

“There’s a gate here,” replied old Wardle. “We shall hear something of the fugitives.”

After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.

“How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?” inquired Mr. Wardle.