has kept the window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it

up again, and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting,

except the 'two stout gentlemen,' whom the coachman inquires after

with some impatience. Hereupon the coachman, and the guard, and

Sam Weller, and Mr Winkle, and Mr Snodgrass, and all the hostlers,

and every one of the idlers, who are more in number than all the

others put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they

can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr Pickwick

and Mr Tupman come running down it, quite out of breath, for they

have been having a glass of ale a-piece, and Mr Pickwick's fingers are

so cold that he has been full five minutes before he could find the

sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts an admonitory 'Now then,

gen'l'm'n,' the guard re-echoes it; the old gentleman inside thinks it a

very extraordinary thing that people WILL get down when they know

there isn't time for it; Mr Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr

Tupman on the other; Mr Winkle cries 'All right'; and off they start.

Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are readjusted, the pavement

ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once again dashing along

the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and

gladdening their very hearts within them.

Such was the progress of Mr Pickwick and his friends by the

Muggleton Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three

o'clock that afternoon they all stood high and dry, safe and sound,

hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the

road quite enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to

the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving

its beautiful network upon the trees and hedges. Mr Pickwick was

busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters and superintending

the disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by

the skirts of the coat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual

who resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than

Mr Wardle's favourite page, better known to the readers of this

unvarnished history, by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy.

Aha!' said Mr Pickwick.

Aha!' said the fat boy.

As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster- barrels, and

chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.

'Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,' said Mr Pickwick.

'I've been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,' replied the fat boy,

who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney- pot, in the

course of an hour's nap. 'Master sent me over with the shay-cart, to

The Pickwick Papers