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In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old Acquaintance — To which fortunate Circumstance the Reader is

           ‘Withoutgoin’sofarastoas-sert,assomewerysensiblepeopledo,thatpostboysanddonkeysisbothimmortal,wotIsayisthis:thatwenevertheyfeelstheirselvesgettin’stiffandpasttheirwork,theyjustridesofftogether,wunpostboytoapairintheusualway;wotbecomeson’emnobodyknows,butit’sweryprobableastheystartsavaytotaketheirpleasureinsomeothervorld,forthereain’tamanaliveaseverseeeitheradonkeyorapostboya-takin’hispleasureinthis!’

           Expatiatinguponthislearnedandremarkabletheory,andcitingmanycuriousstatisticalandotherfactsinitssupport,SamWellerbeguiledthetimeuntiltheyreachedDunchurch,whereadrypostboyandfreshhorseswereprocured;thenextstagewasDaventry,andthenextTowcester;andattheendofeachstageitrainedharderthanithaddoneatthebeginning.

           ‘Isay,’remonstratedBobSawyer,lookinginatthecoachwindow,astheypulledupbeforethedooroftheSaracen’sHead,Towcester,‘thiswon’tdo,youknow.’

           ‘Blessme!’saidMr.Pickwick,justawakeningfromanap,‘I’mafraidyou’rewet.’

           ‘Oh,youare,areyou?’returnedBob.‘Yes,Iam,alittlethatway,Uncomfortablydamp,perhaps.’

           Bobdidlookdampish,inasmuchastherainwasstreamingfromhisneck,elbows,cuffs,skirts,andknees;andhiswholeapparelshonesowiththewet,thatitmighthavebeenmistakenforafullsuitofpreparedoilskin.

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