The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day’s excitement. In his own expressive language he was “floored.” So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.
In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening paper from London was read and reread with an intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution; every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar perseverance; the windows were looked out of, often enough to justify the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.
Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, and the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered how they could possibly have delayed making it as long as they had done.
When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was however heard to declare from the mist, that he expected the first gold medal from the Humane Society on their next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy’s hat off; the water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman declared, must have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great presence of mind in tearing it promptly from his head, and drying the gasping man’s countenance with a wisp of straw.
“This is pleasant,” said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and pulling the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a glass of brandy just swallowed.
“Wery,” replied Sam composedly.
“You don’t seem to mind it,” observed Bob.
“Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ’ud do, sir,” replied Sam.
“That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,” said Bob.
“Yes, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “Wotever is, is right, as the young nobleman sweetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list ’cos his mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit the king’s pipe vith a portable tinderbox.”
“Not a bad notion that, Sam,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer approvingly.
“Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-day arterwards for the rest of his life,” replied Mr. Weller.
“Wos you ever called in,” inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper—“wos you ever called in, when you wos ’prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a postboy.”
“I don’t remember that I ever was,” replied Bob Sawyer.
“You never see a postboy in that ’ere hospital as you walked (as they says o’ the ghosts), did you?” demanded Sam.
“No,” replied Bob Sawyer. “I don’t think I ever did.”
“Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?” inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.
“No,” rejoined Bob, “I never did.”
“No!” rejoined Sam triumphantly. “Nor never vill; and there’s another thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No man never see a dead donkey ’cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silk smalls as know’d the young ’ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.”
“Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?” asked Bob Sawyer.
“This here,” replied Sam. “Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ’em nobody knows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy a-takin’ his pleasure in this!”
Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had done at the beginning.
“I say,” remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head, Towcester, “this won’t do, you know.”
“Bless me!” said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, “I’m afraid you’re wet.”
“Oh, you are, are you?” returned Bob. “Yes, I am, a little that way, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.”
Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from
