'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.