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 codfish, 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 codfish 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 chay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle-horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered how they had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. “Yes, we would rather walk. Here, Sam!”
“Sir,” said Mr. Weller.
“Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and then ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.”
Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working by himself.
“There,” said Sam, throwing in the last carpetbag, “there they are!”
“Yes,” said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, “there they are.”
“Vell, young twenty stun,” said Sam, “you’re a nice specimen of a prize boy, you are!”
“Thank’ee,” said the fat boy.
“You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have you?” inquired Sam.
“Not as I knows on,” replied the fat boy.
“I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a-labourin’ under an unrequited attachment to some young ’ooman,” said Sam.
The fat boy shook his head.
“Vell,” said Sam, “I am glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin’?”
“I likes eating better,” replied the boy.
“Ah,” said Sam, “I should ha’ s’posed that; but what I mean is, should you like a drop of anythin’ as’d warm you? but I s’pose you never was cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?”
“Sometimes,” replied the boy; “and I likes a drop of something, when it’s good.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” said Sam, “come this way, then!”
The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of liquor without so much as winking—a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart.
“Can you drive?” said the fat boy.
“I should rayther think so,” replied Sam.
“There, then,” said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and pointing up a lane, “it’s as straight as you can go; you can’t miss it.”
With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the side of the codfish, and, placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously.
“Well,” said Sam, “of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here young gen’l’m’n is the coolest. Come, wake up, young dropsy!”
But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards the Manor Farm.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard; the grass was crisp and frosty; the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness; and the rapid approach of the gray twilight (slate-coloured is a better term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their greatcoats and play at leapfrog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered “a back,” Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity.
However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before they had even had time to form a guess to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their arrival—a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the loud “Hurrah,” which burst from old Wardle’s lips, when they appeared in sight.
First, there was Wardle himself, looking, if that were possible, more jolly than ever; then there were Bella and her faithful Trundle; and, lastly, there were Emily and some eight or ten young ladies, who had all come down to the wedding, which
