You'll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well

blown already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same

process again. I can't say - all I know is, that Tom Smart said so - or

at least he always told my uncle he said so, and it's just the same

thing.

‘'Blow me,’ says Tom Smart; and the mare neighed as if she were

precisely of the same opinion.

‘'Cheer up, old girl,’ said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with

the end of his whip. ‘It won't do pushing on, such a night as this; the

first house we come to we'll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner

it's over. Soho, old girl - gently - gently.’

Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the

tones of Tom's voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she

found it colder standing still than moving on, of course I can't say.

But I can say that Tom had no sooner finished speaking, than she

pricked up her ears, and started forward at a speed which made the

clay-coloured gig rattle until you would have supposed every one of

the red spokes were going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough

Downs; and even Tom, whip as he was, couldn't stop or check her

pace, until she drew up of her own accord, before a roadside inn on

the right-hand side of the way, about half a quarter of a mile from the

end of the Downs. 'Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the

house as he threw the reins to the hostler, and stuck the whip in the

box. It was a strange old place, built of a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it

were, with cross-beams, with gabled-topped windows projecting

completely over the pathway, and a low door with a dark porch, and a

couple of steep steps leading down into the house, instead of the

modern fashion of half a dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a

comfortable-looking place though, for there was a strong, cheerful

light in the bar window, which shed a bright ray across the road, and

even lighted up the hedge on the other side; and there was a red

flickering light in the opposite window, one moment but faintly

discernible, and the next gleaming strongly through the drawn

curtains, which intimated that a rousing fire was blazing within.

Marking these little evidences with the eye of an experienced traveller,

Tom dismounted with as much agility as his half-frozen limbs would

permit, and entered the house.

'In less than five minutes' time, Tom was ensconced in the room

opposite the bar - the very room where he had imagined the fire

blazing - before a substantial, matter-of-fact, roaring fire, composed of

something short of a bushel of coals, and wood enough to make half a

dozen decent gooseberry bushes, piled half-way up the chimney, and

roaring and crackling with a sound that of itself would have warmed

the heart of any reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was

The Pickwick Papers