Winkle, or whether it occurred to him that he could perform the

journey as much to his own satisfaction without a rider as with one,

are points upon which, of course, we can arrive at no definite and

distinct conclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated,

certain it is that Mr Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he

slipped them over his head, and darted backwards to their full length.

'Poor fellow,' said Mr Winkle soothingly - 'poor fellow - good old

horse.' The 'poor fellow' was proof against flattery; the more Mr Winkle

tried to get nearer him, the more he sidled away; and, notwithstanding

all kinds of coaxing and wheedling, there were Mr Winkle and the

horse going round and round each other for ten minutes, at the end of

which time each was at precisely the same distance from the other as

when they first commenced - an unsatisfactory sort of thing under

any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no

assistance can be procured.

What am I to do?' shouted Mr Winkle, after the dodging had been

prolonged for a considerable time. 'What am I to do? I can't get on

him.'

'You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,' replied Mr

Pickwick from the chaise.

'But he won't come!' roared Mr Winkle. 'Do come and hold him.'

Mr Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity: he

threw the reins on the horse's back, and having descended from his

seat, carefully drew the chaise into the hedge, lest anything should

come along the road, and stepped back to the assistance of his

distressed companion, leaving Mr Tupman and Mr Snodgrass in the

vehicle.

The horse no sooner beheld Mr Pickwick advancing towards him with

the chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotary motion in

which he had previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so

very determined a character, that it at once drew Mr Winkle, who was

still at the end of the bridle, at a rather quicker rate than fast walking,

in the direction from which they had just come. Mr Pickwick ran to his

assistance, but the faster Mr Pickwick ran forward, the faster the

horse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking

up of the dust; and at last Mr Winkle, his arms being nearly pulled

out of their sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared,

shook his head, turned round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester,

leaving Mr Winkle and Mr Pickwick gazing on each other with

countenances of blank dismay. A rattling noise at a little distance

attracted their attention. They looked up.

The Pickwick Papers