waiting in the cold on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which they

have just attained, well wrapped up in great- coats, shawls, and

comforters. The portmanteaus and carpet- bags have been stowed

away, and Mr Weller and the guard are endeavouring to insinuate into

the fore-boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it - which is

snugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over

the top, and which has been left to the last, in order that he may

repose in safety on the half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the

property of Mr Pickwick, which have been arranged in regular order at

the bottom of the receptacle. The interest displayed in Mr Pickwick's

countenance is most intense, as Mr Weller and the guard try to

squeeze the cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first,

and then top upward, and then bottom upward, and then side-ways,

and then long-ways, all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish

sturdily resists, until the guard accidentally hits him in the very

middle of the basket, whereupon he suddenly disappears into the

boot, and with him, the head and shoulders of the guard himself, who,

not calculating upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance

of the cod-fish, experiences a very unexpected shock, to the

unsmotherable delight of all the porters and bystanders. Upon this,

Mr Pickwick smiles with great good-humour, and drawing a shilling

from his waistcoat pocket, begs the guard, as he picks himself out of

the boot, to drink his health in a glass of hot brandy-and-water; at

which the guard smiles too, and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and

Tupman, all smile in company. The guard and Mr Weller disappear for

five minutes, most probably to get the hot brandy-and-water, for they

smell very strongly of it, when they return, the coachman mounts to

the box, Mr Weller jumps up behind, the Pickwickians pull their coats

round their legs and their shawls over their noses, the helpers pull the

horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts out a cheery 'All right,' and

away they go.

They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones,

and at length reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over

the hard and frosty ground; and the horses, bursting into a canter at

a smart crack of the whip, step along the road as if the load behind

them - coach, passengers, cod-fish, oyster-barrels, and all - were but

a feather at their heels. They have descended a gentle slope, and enter

upon a level, as compact and dry as a solid block of marble, two miles

long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart gallop,

the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as if in

exhilaration at the rapidity of the motion; while the coachman, holding

whip and reins in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and

resting it on his knees, pulls out his handkerchief, and wipes his

forehead, partly because he has a habit of doing it, and partly because

it's as well to show the passengers how cool he is, and what an easy

thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much practice

as he has. Having done this very leisurely (otherwise the effect would

The Pickwick Papers