wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs.

Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process,

to the dingy counting-house of Dodson & Fogg. From Dodson & Fogg's

it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer

client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich,

with sufficient clearness to convince Mr Pickwick that he was falling

asleep. So he roused himself, and began to undress, when he

recollected he had left his watch on the table downstairs.

Now this watch was a special favourite with Mr Pickwick, having been

carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater

number of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The

possibility of going to sleep, unless it were ticking gently beneath his

pillow, or in the watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr

Pickwick's brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to

ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which

he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in

his hand, walked quietly downstairs. The more stairs Mr Pickwick

went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend, and again

and again, when Mr Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and

began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did

another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he

reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he

entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore; room after

room did he peep into; at length, as he was on the point of giving up

the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in

which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on

the table.

Mr Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his

steps to his bedchamber. If his progress downward had been attended

with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more

perplexing. Rows of doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make,

and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did

he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his

own, when a gruff cry from within of 'Who the devil's that?' or 'What

do you want here?' caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a

perfectly marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair,

when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last!

There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered,

and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first

received it, had flickered away in the drafts of air through which he

had passed and sank into the socket as he closed the door after him.

'No matter,' said Mr Pickwick, 'I can undress myself just as well by the

light of the fire.'

The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door; and on the inner

side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush- bottomed chair,

The Pickwick Papers