'Let me wrap this shawl round you, Mr.
Pickwick.' 'Ah, that's the best thing you can do,' said Wardle; 'and when you've got it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.' A dozen shawls were offered on the instant.

Three or four of the thickest having been selected, Mr.Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the guidance of Mr.Weller; presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, skimming over the ground, without any clearly-defined purpose, at the rate of six good English miles an hour.
But Mr.Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door of Manor Farm, where Mr.Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her with the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire--a calamity which always presented itself in glowing colours to the old lady's mind, when anybody about her evinced the smallest agitation.
Mr.Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed.

Sam Weller lighted a blazing fire in the room, and took up his dinner; a bowl of punch was carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse held in honour of his safety.

Old Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the bed the chair, and Mr.Pickwick presided.

A second and a third bowl were ordered in; and when Mr.Pickwick awoke next morning, there was not a symptom of rheumatism about him; which proves, as Mr.Bob Sawyer very justly observed, that there is nothing like hot punch in such cases; and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a preventive, it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking enough of it.
The jovial party broke up next morning.