Mr. Pickwick’s temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader.
“Yo—yo—yo—yo—yoe!” went the first boy.
“Yo—yo—yo—yoe!” went the second.
“Yo—yo—yo—yoe!” chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.
“Yo—yo—yo—yoe!” shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo—yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“There’s a gate here,” replied old Wardle. “We shall hear something of the fugitives.”
After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.
“How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?” inquired Mr. Wardle.
“How long?”