butcher's horse and a twopenny post-office pony, he would have

known at once, that this traveller could have been no other than Tom

Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton Street, City.

However, as there was no bagman to look on, nobody knew anything

at all about the matter; and so Tom Smart and his clay-coloured gig

with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, went on

together, keeping the secret among them, and nobody was a bit the

wiser.

There are many pleasanter places even in this dreary world, than

Marlborough Downs when it blows hard; and if you throw in beside, a

gloomy winter's evening, a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of

heavy rain, and try the effect, by way of experiment, in your own

proper person, you will experience the full force of this observation.

The wind blew - not up the road or down it, though that's bad

enough, but sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the

lines they used to rule in the copy-books at school, to make the boys

slope well. For a moment it would die away, and the traveller would

begin to delude himself into the belief that, exhausted with its

previous fury, it had quietly laid itself down to rest, when, whoo! he

could hear it growling and whistling in the distance, and on it would

come rushing over the hill-tops, and sweeping along the plain,

gathering sound and strength as it drew nearer, until it dashed with a

heavy gust against horse and man, driving the sharp rain into their

ears, and its cold damp breath into their very bones; and past them it

would scour, far, far away, with a stunning roar, as if in ridicule of

their weakness, and triumphant in the consciousness of its own

strength and power.

'The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with

drooping ears; now and then tossing her head as if to express her

disgust at this very ungentlemanly behaviour of the elements, but

keeping a good pace notwithstanding, until a gust of wind, more

furious than any that had yet assailed them, caused her to stop

suddenly and plant her four feet firmly against the ground, to prevent

her being blown over. It's a special mercy that she did this, for if she

HAD been blown over, the vixenish mare was so light, and the gig was

so light, and Tom Smart such a light weight into the bargain, that

they must infallibly have all gone rolling over and over together, until

they reached the confines of earth, or until the wind fell; and in either

case the probability is, that neither the vixenish mare, nor the clay-

coloured gig with the red wheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever have

been fit for service again.

‘Well, damn my straps and whiskers,’ says Tom Smart (Tom

sometimes had an unpleasant knack of swearing) - ‘damn my straps

and whiskers,’ says Tom, ‘if this ain't pleasant, blow me!’

The Pickwick Papers