The Pickwick Papers
gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black
mass overhead; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then
against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the
rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly
against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road, and howled
dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew
his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner
of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only
awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler’s
bell, and a loud cry of ‘Horses on directly!’
But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such
mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them.
The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even
when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the
wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through
afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would
have completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was
not to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty
good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here,
and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter
time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many
difficulties.
They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was
by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was
dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible
to make any great way against such obstacles united; it was hard upon
one o’clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to
the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which
rekindled their hopes, and reanimated their drooping spirits.
‘When did this chaise come in?’ cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own
vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in
the yard.
‘Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir,’ replied the hostler, to whom the
question was addressed.
‘Lady and gentleman?’ inquired Wardle, almost breathless with
impatience.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Tall gentleman--dress-coat--long legs--thin body?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Elderly lady--thin face--rather skinny--eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By heavens, it’s the couple, Pickwick,’ exclaimed the old gentleman.
‘Would have been here before,’ said the hostler, ‘but they broke a
trace.’
‘’Tis them!’ said Wardle, ‘it is, by Jove! Chaise-and-four instantly! We
shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece,
boys-be alive there--bustle about--there’s good fellows.’
And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down
the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which
communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of
which, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with
harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most
surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially
forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.
‘Jump in--jump in!’ cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling
up the steps, and slamming the door after him. ‘Come along! Make haste!’
And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt
himself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman
and one push from the hostler; and off they were again.
‘Ah! we are moving now,’ said the old gentleman exultingly. They were
indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant
collision either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of
his companion.
‘Hold up!’ said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head
foremost into his capacious waistcoat.
‘I never did feel such a jolting in my life,’ said Mr. Pickwick.
‘Never mind,’ replied his companion, ‘it will soon be over. Steady,
steady.’
Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could;
and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.
They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who
had been looking out of the Window for two or three minutes, suddenly
drew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless
eagerness--
‘Here they are!’
Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise-
and-four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.
‘Go on, go on,’ almost shrieked the old gentleman. ‘Two guineas a-piece,
boys--don’t let ‘em gain on us--keep it up--keep it up.’
The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and
those in Mr. Wardle’s galloped furiously behind them.
‘I see his head,’ exclaimed the choleric old man; ‘damme, I see his
head.’
‘So do I’ said Mr. Pickwick; ‘that’s he.’
Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely
coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the
window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which was waving
violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them
to increased exertion.
The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past
them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which
they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise.
Jingle’s voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels,
urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He
roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and
shook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle
only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a
shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of
whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.
Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with
shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward
against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump--a loud crash-
-away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.
After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing
but the plunging of horses, and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr.
Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the
chaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from
the skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of
his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.
Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places,
stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at
their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were
standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the
horses’ heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise,
which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postillions, each with a
broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party
from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the
coach window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and
the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the
morning.
‘Hollo!’ shouted the shameless Jingle, ‘anybody damaged?--elderly
gentlemen--no light weights--dangerous work--very.’
‘You’re a rascal,’ roared Wardle.
‘Ha! ha!’ replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a
jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise--‘I say--she’s very
well--desires her compliments--begs you won’t trouble yourself--love to
_Tuppy_--won’t you get up behind?--drive on, boys.’
The postillions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the
chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the
coach window.
Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the
calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick’s temper. The villainy,
however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and
then abbreviate his name to ‘Tuppy,’ was more than he could patiently
bear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his
spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically--
‘If ever I meet that man again, I’ll--’
‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Wardle, ‘that’s all very well; but while we
stand talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in
London.’
Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. ‘How
far is it to the next stage?’ inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys.
‘Six mile, ain’t it, Tom?’
‘Rayther better.’
‘Rayther better nor six mile, Sir.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Wardle, ‘we must walk it, Pickwick.’
‘No help for it,’ replied that truly great man.
So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh
chaise and horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the
broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the
walk, first tying their shawls round their necks, and slouching down
their hats to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which
after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down.
CHAPTER X. CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (IF ANY EXISTED) OF THE
DISINTERESTEDNESS OF MR. A. JINGLE’S CHARACTER
There are in London several old inns, once the headquarters of
celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in
a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times; but which
have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking-
places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these
ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses and Bull and Mouths, which
rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would
light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the
obscurer quarters of the town, and there in some secluded nooks he will
find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst
the modern innovations which surround them.
In the Borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old inns,
which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have
escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of
private speculation. Great, rambling queer old places they are, with
galleries, and passages, and staircases, wide enough and antiquated
enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we
should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and
that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable
veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent
neighbourhood on the Surrey side.
It was in the yard of one of these inns--of no less celebrated a one
than the White Hart--that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt
off a pair of boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated
in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse, striped waistcoat, with
black calico sleeves, and blue glass buttons; drab breeches and
leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loose and
unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly
thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him,
one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the
clean row, he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with
evident satisfaction.
The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual
characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons,
each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of