'What's all this about, Sam?' inquired one gentleman in black clothes.
 
'What's it about?' 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?' demanded 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 that an informer would go about in a man's cab, not only taking down his number, but every word he says as well (Suddenly Mr Pickwick understood - it was what he had written in his note-book that had upset the cabbie).
 
'Did he do that?' asked another cabman.

'Yes, he did,' replied Sam; 'and now he is trying to get me angry so that I will assault him. He's got three witnesses here to prove it. But I'll get him, if I get six months in prison for it. Come on!' and the cabman dashed his hat to the ground, not caring that he was damaging his own private property, and knocked Mr Pickwick's spectacles off.

He followed up the attack with a blow on Mr Pickwick's nose, and another on Mr Pickwick's chest. A third blow hit Mr Snodgrass's eye, and a fourth, just for a change, hit Mr Tupman's waistcoat.
 
The cabbie danced into the road, and then back again to the pavement, and finally knocked all the breath out of Mr Winkle's body with another punch; and all this in half a dozen seconds.