“Bless my soul!” exclaimed the agonised Mr. Pickwick; “there’s the other horse running away!”
It was but too true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins were on his back. The results may be guessed. He tore off with the four-wheeled chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the four—wheeled chaise against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and the bin from the perch; and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made.
The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate companions from their bed of quickset—a process which gave them the unspeakable satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents in their garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next thing to be done was to unharness the horse. This complicated process having been effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and abandoning the chaise to its fate.
An hour’s walk brought the travellers to a little roadside public-house, with two elm-trees, a horse trough, and a signpost, in front; one or two deformed hayricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and mouldering outhouses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A redheaded man was working in the garden; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily, “Hallo there!”
The redheaded man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared, long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions.
“Hallo there!” repeated Mr. Pickwick.
“Hallo!” was the redheaded man’s reply.
“How far is it to Dingley Dell?”
“Better er seven mile.”
“Is it a good road?”
“No, ’tain’t.” Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied himself with another scrutiny, the redheaded man resumed his work. “We want to put this horse up here,” said Mr. Pickwick; “I suppose we can, can’t we?”
“Want to put that ere horse up, do ee?” repeated the redheaded man, leaning on his spade.
“Of course,” replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in hand, to the garden rails.
“Missus”—roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and looking very hard at the horse—“missus!”
A tall, bony woman—straight all the way down—in a coarse, blue pelisse, with the waist an inch or two below her armpits, responded to the call.
“Can we put this horse up here, my good woman?” said Mr. Tupman, advancing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked very hard at the whole party; and the redheaded man whispered something in her ear.
“No,” replied the woman, after a little consideration, “I’m afeerd on it.”
“Afraid!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, “what’s the woman afraid of?”
“It got us in trouble last time,” said the woman, turning into the house; “I woan’t have nothin’ to say to ’un.”
“Most extraordinary thing I have ever met with in my life,” said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
“I—I—really believe,” whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered round him, “that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest manner.”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle modestly repeated his suggestion.
“Hallo, you fellow,” said the angry Mr. Pickwick, “do you think we stole the horse?”
“I’m sure ye did,” replied the redheaded man, with a grin which agitated his countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying which he turned into the house and banged the door after him.
“It’s like a dream,” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, “a hideous dream. The idea of a man’s walking about all day with a dreadful horse that he can’t get rid of!” The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowly at their heels.
It was late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed companion turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm; and even when they were so near their place of destination, the pleasure they would otherwise have experienced was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance, and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that horse: he had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of hatred and revenge; more than once he had calculated the probable amount of the expense he would incur by cutting his throat; and now the temptation to destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed upon his mind with tenfold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire imaginings by the sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and his faithful attendant, the fat boy.
“Why, where have you been?” said the hospitable old gentleman; “I’ve been waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What! Scratches! Not hurt, I hope—eh? Well, I am glad to hear that—very. So you’ve been spilt, eh? Never mind.
