In one instant, after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted

and quiet spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and

animation. The mail coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was

replaced, the ironwork was as good as new, the paint was restored,

the lamps were alight; cushions and greatcoats were on every coach-

box, porters were thrusting parcels into every boot, guards were

stowing away letter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water against

the renovated wheels; numbers of men were pushing about, fixing

poles into every coach; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were

handed up, horses were put to; in short, it was perfectly clear that

every mail there, was to be off directly. Gentlemen, my uncle opened

his eyes so wide at all this, that, to the very last moment of his life, he

used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever been able to shut 'em

again.

‘

‘Now then!’ said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder,

you're booked for one inside. You'd better get in.’

‘I booked!’ said my uncle, turning round.

‘Yes, certainly.’

My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing, he was so very much

astonished. The queerest thing of all was that although there was

such a crowd of persons, and although fresh faces were pouring in,

every moment, there was no telling where they came from. They

seemed to start up, in some strange manner, from the ground, or the

air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put his

luggage in the coach, and received his fare, he turned round and was

gone; and before my uncle had well begun to wonder what had

become of him, half a dozen fresh ones started up, and staggered

along under the weight of parcels, which seemed big enough to crush

them. The passengers were all dressed so oddly too! Large, broad-

skirted laced coats, with great cuffs and no collars; and wigs,

gentlemen - great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make

nothing of it.

‘Now, are you going to get in?’ said the person who had addressed my

uncle before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head

and most enormous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand,

and a huge blunderbuss in the other, which he was going to stow

away in his little arm-chest. ‘ARE you going to get in, Jack Martin?’

said the guard, holding the lantern to my uncle's face.

‘Hollo!’ said my uncle, falling back a step or two. ‘That's familiar!’

‘It's so on the way-bill,’ said the guard.

The Pickwick Papers