Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

Containing the Story of the Bagman’s Uncle

           Now,inthispieceofwasteground,therewas,atthattime,anenclosurebelongingtosomewheelwrightwhocontractedwiththePostOfficeforthepurchaseofold,worn-outmailcoaches;andmyuncle,beingveryfondofcoaches,old,young,ormiddle-aged,allatoncetookitintohisheadtostepoutofhisroadfornootherpurposethantopeepbetweenthepalingsatthesemails—aboutadozenofwhichherememberedtohaveseen,crowdedtogetherinaveryforlornanddismantledstate,inside.Myunclewasaveryenthusiastic,emphaticsortofperson,gentlemen;so,findingthathecouldnotobtainagoodpeepbetweenthepalingshegotoverthem,andsittinghimselfquietlydownonanoldaxle-tree,begantocontemplatethemailcoacheswithadealofgravity.

           ‘Theremightbeadozenofthem,ortheremightbemore—myunclewasneverquitecertainonthispoint,andbeingamanofveryscrupulousveracityaboutnumbers,didn’tliketosay—buttheretheystood,allhuddledtogetherinthemostdesolateconditionimaginable.Thedoorshadbeentornfromtheirhingesandremoved;theliningshadbeenstrippedoff,onlyashredhanginghereandtherebyarustynail;thelampsweregone,thepoleshadlongsincevanished,theironworkwasrusty,thepaintwaswornaway;thewindwhistledthroughthechinksinthebarewoodwork;andtherain,whichhadcollectedontheroofs,fell,dropbydrop,intotheinsideswithahollowandmelancholysound.

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