Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

A Discovery and a Chase

           

           ‘Howmucharetheyahead?’shoutedWardle,astheydroveuptothedooroftheBlueLion,roundwhichalittlecrowdhadcollected,lateasitwas.

           ‘Notabovethree-quartersofanhour,’waseverybody’sreply.‘Chaise-and-fourdirectly!—outwith’em!Putupthegigafterwards.’

           ‘Now,boys!’criedthelandlord—‘chaise-and-fourout—makehaste—lookalivethere!’

           Awayranthehostlersandtheboys.Thelanternsglimmered,asthemenrantoandfro;thehorses’hoofsclatteredontheunevenpavingoftheyard;thechaiserumbledasitwasdrawnoutofthecoach-house;andallwasnoiseandbustle.

           ‘Nowthen!—isthatchaisecomingoutto-night?’criedWardle.

           ‘Comingdowntheyardnow,Sir,’repliedthehostler.

           Outcamethechaise—inwentthehorses—onsprangtheboys—ingotthetravellers.

           ‘Mind—theseven-milestageinlessthanhalfanhour!’shoutedWardle.

           ‘Offwithyou!’

           Theboysappliedwhipandspur,thewaitersshouted,thehostlerscheered,andawaytheywent,fastandfuriously.

           ‘Prettysituation,’thoughtMr.Pickwick,whenhehadhadamoment’stimeforreflection.‘PrettysituationforthegeneralchairmanofthePickwickClub.

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