“You’re a rascal!” roared Wardle.
“Ha! ha!” replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise—“I say—she’s very well—desires her compliments—begs you won’t trouble yourself—love to Tuppy—won’t you get up behind?—drive on, boys.”
The postilions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise, Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach-window.
Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick’s temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to “Tuppy,” was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard, and coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically—
“If ever I meet that man again, I’ll——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Wardle, “that’s all very well: but while we stand talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in London.”
Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down.
“How far is it to the next stage?” inquired Mr. Wardle of one of the boys.
“Six mile, an’t it, Tom?”