Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

The first Day’s Journey, and the first Evening’s Adventures; with their Consequences

           

           ‘Nevermind,’saidthestranger,cuttingtheaddressveryshort,‘saidenough—nomore;smartchapthatcabman—handledhisfiveswell;butifI’dbeenyourfriendinthegreenjemmy—damnme—punchhishead—‘codIwould—pig’swhisper—piemantoo—nogammon.’

           ThiscoherentspeechwasinterruptedbytheentranceoftheRochestercoachman,toannouncethat‘theCommodore’wasonthepointofstarting.

           ‘Commodore!’saidthestranger,startingup,‘mycoach—placebooked—oneoutside—leaveyoutopayforthebrandy-and-water—wantchangeforafive—badsilver—Brummagembuttons—won’tdo—nogo—eh?’andheshookhisheadmostknowingly.

           NowitsohappenedthatMr.PickwickandhisthreecompanionshadresolvedtomakeRochestertheirfirsthalting-placetoo;andhavingintimatedtotheirnew-foundacquaintancethattheywerejourneyingtothesamecity,theyagreedtooccupytheseatatthebackofthecoach,wheretheycouldallsittogether.

           ‘Upwithyou,’saidthestranger,assistingMr.Pickwickontotheroofwithsomuchprecipitationastoimpairthegravityofthatgentleman’sdeportmentverymaterially.

           ‘Anyluggage,Sir?’inquiredthecoachman.

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