‘Or drunk,’ said Mr. Winkle.     

       ‘Or both,’ said Mr. Tupman.     

       ‘Come on!’ said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. ‘Come on—all four on you.’      

       ‘Here’s a lark!’ shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. ‘Go to vork, Sam!—and they crowded with great glee round the party.     

       ‘What’s the row, Sam?’ inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.     

       ‘Row!’ replied the cabman, ‘what did he want my number for?’      

       ‘I didn’t want your number,’ said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.     

       ‘What did you take it for, then?’ inquired the cabman.     

       ‘I didn’t take it,’ said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.     

       ‘Would anybody believe,’ continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd,       ‘would anybody believe as an informer’ud go about in a man’s cab, not only takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word he says into the bargain’ (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick—it was the note-book).     

       ‘Did he though?’ inquired another cabman.     

       ‘Yes, did he,’ replied the first; ‘and then arter aggerawatin’ me to assault him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll give it him, if I’ve six months for it. Come on!’ and the cabman dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reckless disregard of his own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, and another on Mr. Pickwick’s chest, and a       third in Mr. Snodgrass’s eye, and a fourth, by way of variety, in Mr. Tupman’s waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally dashed the whole temporary supply of breath out of Mr. Winkle’s body; and all in half a dozen seconds.     

       ‘Where’s an officer?’ said Mr. Snodgrass.     

       ‘Put ‘em under the pump,’ suggested a hot-pieman.     

       ‘You shall smart for this,’ gasped Mr. Pickwick.     

       ‘Informers!’ shouted the 

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