"It was past 11 o'clock--a late hour for the little village of
Cobham--when Mr. Pickwick retired to the bedroom which had been
prepared for his reception. He threw open the lattice-window, and,
setting his light upon the table, fell into a train of meditation
on the hurried events of the two preceding days.

"The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation;
Mr. Pickwick was roused by the church clock striking twelve.
The first stroke of the hour sounded solemnly in his ear, but
when the bell ceased the stillness seemed insupportable; he
almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was nervous and
excited; and hastily undressing himself, and placing his light in
the chimney, got into bed."

But Mr. Pickwick could not sleep following the excitement of
the day's adventure, so "after half an hour's tumbling about, he
came to the unsatisfactory conclusion that it was of no use trying
to sleep, so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he
thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors.
He looked out of the window--it was very dark. He walked about
the room--it was very lonely."

Suddenly he thought of The Madman's Manuscript which he had
brought from Dingley Dell, and, trimming his light, he put on his
spectacles and composed himself to read that blood-curdling
narrative. On reaching the end, Mr. Pickwick's candle "went
suddenly out" and he once more scrambled into bed.

Next morning, with the coveted antiquarian treasure, the four
gentlemen travelled to London by coach.