“Here’s a game!” roared the populace.
“Where am I?” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
“In the Pound,” replied the mob.
“How came I here? What was I doing? Where was I brought from?”
“Boldwig! Captain Boldwig!” was the only reply.
“Let me out!” cried Mr. Pickwick. “Where’s my servant? Where are my friends?”
“You an’t got no friends. Hurrah!” Then there came a turnip, then a potato, and then an egg; with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of the many-headed.
How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving swiftly by, suddenly pulled up, from whence there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the former of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it, had made his way to Mr. Pickwick’s side, and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle.
“Run to the Justice’s!” cried a dozen voices.