be materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his

hat, adjusts his gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again,

and on they speed, more merrily than before. A few small houses,

scattered on either side of the road, betoken the entrance to some

town or village. The lively notes of the guard's key-bugle vibrate in the

clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who, carefully

letting down the window-sash half-way, and standing sentry over the

air, takes a short peep out, and then carefully pulling it up again,

informs the other inside that they're going to change directly; on

which the other inside wakes himself up, and determines to postpone

his next nap until after the stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily

forth, and rouses the cottager's wife and children, who peep out at the

house door, and watch the coach till it turns the corner, when they

once more crouch round the blazing fire, and throw on another log of

wood against father comes home; while father himself, a full mile off,

has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coachman, and turned

round to take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away.

And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the

ill-paved streets of a country town; and the coachman, undoing the

buckle which keeps his ribands together, prepares to throw them off

the moment he stops. Mr Pickwick emerges from his coat collar, and

looks about him with great curiosity; perceiving which, the coachman

informs Mr Pickwick of the name of the town, and tells him it was

market-day yesterday, both of which pieces of information Mr

Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers; whereupon they emerge from

their coat collars too, and look about them also. Mr Winkle, who sits

at the extreme edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly

precipitated into the street, as the coach twists round the sharp

corner by the cheesemonger's shop, and turns into the market- place;

and before Mr Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered from

his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard where the fresh horses, with

cloths on, are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins

and gets down himself, and the other outside passengers drop down

also; except those who have no great confidence in their ability to get

up again; and they remain where they are, and stamp their feet

against the coach to warm them - looking, with longing eyes and red

noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with red

berries which ornament the window.

But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer's shop, the brown

paper packet he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his

shoulder by a leathern strap; and has seen the horses carefully put to;

and has thrown on the pavement the saddle which was brought from

London on the coach roof; and has assisted in the conference between

the coachman and the hostler about the gray mare that hurt her off

fore-leg last Tuesday; and he and Mr Weller are all right behind, and

the coachman is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who

The Pickwick Papers