and trotted home. Hearing the clatter the other horse bolted, too.
Snodgrass and Tupman jumped for their lives and the chaise was smashed
to pieces against a wooden bridge. With difficulty the horse was freed
from the ruins and, leading him, the four friends walked the seven miles
to Dingley Dell, where they found Mr. Wardle and the fat boy, the latter
fast asleep as usual, posted in the lane to meet them.

Brushes, a needle and thread and some cherry-brandy soon cured their
rents and bruises and they forgot their misfortunes in an evening of
pleasure. Mr. Wardle's mother was a deaf old lady with an ear-trumpet,
who loved to play whist. When she disliked a person she would pretend
she could not hear a word he said, but Mr. Pickwick's jollity and
compliments made her forget even to use her ear-trumpet. Tupman flirted
with the spinster aunt and Snodgrass whispered poetry into Emily's ear
to his heart's content.

Next morning Mr. Wardle took Winkle rook-shooting. The pair set out with
their guns, preceded by the fat boy and followed by Mr. Pickwick,
Snodgrass and the corpulent Tupman. Winkle, who disliked to admit his
ignorance of guns, showed it in a painful way. His first shot missed the
birds, and lodged itself in the arm of Tupman, who fell to the ground.
The confusion that followed can not be described. They bound up his
wounds and supported him to the house, where the ladies waited at the
garden gate, Mr. Wardle calling out to them not to be frightened.

The warning, however, had no effect on the spinster aunt. At the sight
of her Tupman wounded, she began to scream. Old Mr. Wardle told her not
to be a fool, but Tupman was affected almost to tears and spoke her name
with such romantic tenderness that the poor foolish lady felt quite a
flutter at her heart.

A surgeon found the wound a slight one, and as a cricket match was to be
played that day, the host left Tupman in the care of the ladies and
carried off the others to the game.

When they reached the field, the first words that fell on Mr. Pickwick's
ear made him start:

"This way--capital fun--glorious day--make yourself at home--glad to see
you--very." It was Jingle, still clad in his faded green coat. He had
fallen in with the visiting players, and by telling wonderful tales of
the games he had played in the West Indies, soon convinced them he was a
great cricket player. Seeing him greet Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Wardle,
thinking him a friend of his guest, procu