'Get out of the way!' cried the officers of the stationary one.

'Where are we to go to?' screamed the agitated Pickwickians.

'Hoi - hoi - hoi!' was the only reply. There was a moment of intense

bewilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a

smothered laugh; the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand

yards off, and the soles of Mr Pickwick's boots were elevated in air.

Mr Snodgrass and Mr Winkle had each performed a compulsory

somerset with remarkable agility, when the first object that met the

eyes of the latter as he sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow

silk handkerchief the stream of life which issued from his nose, was

his venerated leader at some distance off, running after his own hat,

which was gambolling playfully away in perspective.

There are very few moments in a man's existence when he experiences

so much ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable

commiseration, as when he is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of

coolness, and a peculiar degree of judgment, are requisite in catching

a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he runs over it; he must not

rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. The best way

is to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and

cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then

make a rapid dive, seize it by the crown, and stick it firmly on your

head; smiling pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a

joke as anybody else.

There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr Pickwick's hat rolled sportively

before it. The wind puffed, and Mr Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled

over and over as merrily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide: and on it

might have rolled, far beyond Mr Pickwick's reach, had not its course

been providentially stopped, just as that gentleman was on the point

of resigning it to its fate.

Mr Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up

the chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the

wheel of a carriage, which was drawn up in a line with half a dozen

other vehicles on the spot to which his steps had been directed. Mr

Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, darted briskly forward, secured

his property, planted it on his head, and paused to take breath. He

had not been stationary half a minute, when he heard his own name

eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he at once recognised as Mr

Tupman's, and, looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him

with surprise and pleasure.

in an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the

better to accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old

The Pickwick Papers