It was all very fine so long as the soldiers were firing in other directions. But it was different when Mr. Pickwick saw the muskets pointed in their direction. This was getting decidedly dangerous. “What are they doing now?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “I rather think,” said Mr. Winkle, “that they are going to fire.” “Nonsense,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I--I--really think they are,” urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed. “Impossible,” replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the words when the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets at Mr. Pickwick and his friends, and there burst forth the most tremendous discharge. Mr. Pickwick assured his friends that there was no danger. “But suppose,” said Mr. Winkle, “that some of the men should have ball cartridges by mistake. I heard something whistle in the air just now.” “We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we?” said Mr. Snodgrass. “No, it’s over now,” said Mr. Pickwick. But it wasn’t over. A minute after, the order was given to charge with fixed bayonets, and Mr. Pickwick and his friends saw the six regiments charging across the field to the very spot where they were standing. “Get out of the way!” cried the officers. “Where are we to go to?” screamed Mr. Pickwick. There was nothing for Mr. Pickwick and his friends to do but to get out of the way as fast as they could. There was a gentle wind blowing, and it carried Mr. Pickwick’s hat across the field. He ran after it as fast as he could, till it went under the wheels of a carriage from which the horses had been taken out. In the carriage was a stout old gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, and an aunt. At the back of the carriage was a huge hamper with cold chicken, ham, tongue, and all the materials for a picnic, and on the box sat a very fat and very red-faced boy, sound asleep. The stout gentleman in the blue coat was Mr. Wardle, who instantly became a warm friend of Mr. Pickwick, and invited him to get into the carriage and have something to eat. “Come along, sir, pray come up. Joe! That boy has gone to sleep again. Joe, let down the steps.” The fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open. “Room for you all, gentlemen,” said the stout man. “Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir, come along.” And he pulled Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass in by main force. When they were all in the carriage, Mr. Wardle called to Joe, who had again gone to sleep, to prepare for the lunch. “Now Joe, knives and forks.” The knives and forks were handed to the ladies and gentlemen inside. “Plates, Joe, plates!” But Joe had dropped to sleep again. “Now, Joe, the fowls. Come hand in the eatables!” There was something in the last words that roused Joe to the greatest activity, for he was always ready to eat.