It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of turmoil and confusion, to behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick’s face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion, while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the females congregated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man entered to announce that the gig was ready. ‘Don’t let him go alone!’ screamed the females. ‘He’ll kill somebody!’ ‘I’ll go with him,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘You’re a good fellow, Pickwick,’ said the host, grasping his hand. ‘Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck--make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready?’ Mr. Pickwick’s mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his greatcoat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative. They jumped into the gig. ‘Give her her head, Tom,’ cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes; jolting in and out of the cart- ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment. ‘How much are they ahead?’ shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was. ‘Not above three-quarters of an hour,’ was everybody’s reply. ‘Chaise-and-four directly!--out with ‘em! Put up the gig afterwards.’ ‘Now, boys!’ cried the landlord--‘chaise-and-four out--make haste--look alive there!’ Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran to and fro; the horses’ hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle. ‘Now then!--is that chaise coming out to-night?’ cried Wardle. ‘Coming down the yard now, Sir,’ replied the hostler. Out came the chaise--in went the horses--on sprang the boys--in got the travellers. ‘Mind--the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!’ shouted Wardle. ‘Off with you!’ The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously. ‘Pretty situation,’ thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment’s time for reflection. ‘Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise--strange horses--fifteen miles an hour--and twelve o’clock at night!’ For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.