The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently

under the especial patronage of stage-coachmen; for several

gentleman, who had all the appearance of belonging to that learned

profession, were drinking and smoking in the different boxes. Among

the number was one stout, red-faced, elderly man, in particular,

seated in an opposite box, who attracted Mr Pickwick's attention. The

stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between every

half-dozen puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at

Mr Weller and then at Mr Pickwick. Then, he would bury in a quart

pot, as much of his countenance as the dimensions of the quart pot

admitted of its receiving, and take another look at Sam and Mr

Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen puffs with an air of

profound meditation and look at them again. At last the stout man,

putting up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back against the wall,

began to puff at his pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare

through the smoke at the new-comers, as if he had made up his mind

to see the most he could of them.

At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr Weller's

observation, but by degrees, as he saw Mr Pickwick's eyes every now

and then turning towards him, he began to gaze in the same direction,

at the same time shading his eyes with his hand, as if he partially

recognised the object before him, and wished to make quite sure of its

identity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, however; for the stout

man having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like

some strange effort of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the

capacious shawls which muffled his throat and chest, and slowly

uttered these sounds - 'Wy, Sammy!'

'Who's that, Sam?' inquired Mr Pickwick.

Why, I wouldn't ha' believed it, Sir,' replied Mr Weller, with astonished

eyes. 'It's the old 'un.'

'Old one,' said Mr Pickwick. 'What old one?'

'My father, sir,' replied Mr Weller. 'How are you, my ancient?' And with

this beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr Weller made room on the

seat beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and

pot in hand, to greet him.

Wy, Sammy,' said the father, 'I ha'n't seen you, for two year and

better.'

Nor more you have, old codger,' replied the son. 'How's mother-in-

law?'

The Pickwick Papers