There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef, when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him. Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage; the parlour door was suddenly burst open; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick’s boots on his first arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the domestics. ‘What the devil’s the meaning of this?’ exclaimed the host. ‘The kitchen chimney ain’t a-fire, is it, Emma?’ inquired the old lady. ‘Lor, grandma! No,’ screamed both the young ladies. ‘What’s the matter?’ roared the master of the house. The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated-- ‘They ha’ gone, mas’r!--gone right clean off, Sir!’ (At this juncture Mr. Tupman was observed to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very pale.) ‘Who’s gone?’ said Mr. Wardle fiercely. ‘Mus’r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po’-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. I was there; but I couldn’t stop ‘em; so I run off to tell ‘ee.’ ‘I paid his expenses!’ said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. ‘He’s got ten pounds of mine!--stop him!--he’s swindled me!--I won’t bear it!- -I’ll have justice, Pickwick!--I won’t stand it!’ and with sundry incoherent exclamations of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun round and round the apartment, in a transport of frenzy. ‘Lord preserve us!’ ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. ‘He’s gone mad! What shall we do?’ Do!’ said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sentence. ‘Put the horse in the gig! I’ll get a chaise at the Lion, and follow ‘em instantly. Where?’--he exclaimed, as the man ran out to execute the commission--‘where’s that villain, Joe?’ ‘Here I am! but I hain’t a willin,’ replied a voice. It was the fat boy’s. ‘Let me get at him, Pickwick,’ cried Wardle, as he rushed at the ill- starred youth. ‘He was bribed by that scoundrel, Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, by telling a cock-and-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman!’ (Here Mr. Tupman sank into a chair.) ‘Let me get at him!’ ‘Don’t let him!’ screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible. ‘I won’t be held!’ cried the old man. ‘Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir!’