Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour in a thunderstorm. He had a tree on his right, a tree on his left, a third before him, and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of an accident; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he might be consigned to a constable. Once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished him, the only effect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration. ‘What a dreadful situation,’ said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow after this exercise. He looked up at the house--all was dark. They must be gone to bed now. He would try the signal again. He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply: very odd. Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice cried-- ‘Who’s there?’ ‘That’s not Job,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. ‘It’s a woman.’ He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query--‘Who’s there?’ Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or perish in the attempt. Like all Mr. Pickwick’s determinations, this was the best that could be made under the circumstances; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption that they would not venture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture, when he heard the chain and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening, wider and wider! He retreated into the corner, step by step; but do what he would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its utmost width. ‘Who’s there?’ screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the staircase inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half- dressed and in a forest of curl-papers. Of course Mr. Pickwick didn’t say who was there: and then the burden of the chorus changed into--‘Lor! I am so frightened.’ ‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very last of the group--‘cook, why don’t you go a little way into the garden?’ Please, ma’am, I don’t like,’ responded the cook. ‘Lor, what a stupid thing that cook is!’ said the thirty boarders. ‘Cook,’ said the lady abbess, with great dignity; ‘don’t answer me, if you please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately.’