gentleman, in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and

top-boots, two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman

apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and

feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid,

and Mr Tupman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to

the family from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened up behind

the barouche was a hamper of spacious dimensions - one of those

hampers which always awakens in a contemplative mind associations

connected with cold fowls, tongues, and bottles of wine - and on the

box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state of somnolency, whom no

speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without

setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the before-

mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their consumption

should arrive.

Mr Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects,

when he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.

Pickwick - Pickwick,' said Mr Tupman; 'come up here. Make haste.'

Come along, Sir. Pray, come up,' said the stout gentleman. 'Joe! -

damn that boy, he's gone to sleep again. - Joe, let down the steps.' The

fat boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the

carriage door invitingly open. Mr Snodgrass and Mr Winkle came up

at the moment.

Room for you all, gentlemen,' said the stout man. 'Two inside, and

one out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now,

Sir, come along;' and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and

pulled first Mr Pickwick, and then Mr Snodgrass, into the barouche by

main force. Mr Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the

same perch, and fell fast asleep instantly.

'Well, gentlemen,' said the stout man, 'very glad to see you. Know you

very well, gentlemen, though you mayn't remember me. I spent some

ev'nin's at your club last winter - picked up my friend Mr Tupman

here this morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, Sir, and how

are you? You do look uncommon well, to be sure.'

Mr Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook

hands with the stout gentleman in the top-boots.

'Well, and how are you, sir?' said the stout gentleman, addressing Mr

Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. 'Charming, eh? Well, that's right -

that's right. And how are you, sir (to Mr Winkle)? Well, I am glad to

hear you say you are well; very glad I am, to be sure. My daughters,

gentlemen - my gals these are; and that's my sister, Miss Rachael

Wardle. She's a Miss, she is; and yet she ain't a Miss - eh, Sir, eh?'

The Pickwick Papers