Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

In which Mr. Pickwick thinks he had better go to Bath; and goes accordingly

           

           Therewerejusttwoplacestobehadinside,andjustthreetobehadout;soSamWellerbookedforthemall,andhavingexchangedafewcomplimentswiththebooking-officeclerkonthesubjectofapewterhalf-crownwhichwastenderedhimasaportionofhis‘change,’walkedbacktotheGeorgeandVulture,wherehewasprettybusilyemployeduntilbed-timeinreducingclothesandlinenintothesmallestpossiblecompass,andexertinghismechanicalgeniusinconstructingavarietyofingeniousdevicesforkeepingthelidsonboxeswhichhadneitherlocksnorhinges.

           Thenextwasaveryunpropitiousmorningforajourneymuggy,damp,anddrizzly.Thehorsesinthestagesthatweregoingout,andhadcomethroughthecity,weresmokingso,thattheoutsidepassengerswereinvisible.Thenewspaper-sellerslookedmoist,andsmelledmouldy;thewetranoffthehatsoftheorange-vendorsastheythrusttheirheadsintothecoachwindows,anddilutedtheinsidesinarefreshingmanner.TheJewswiththefifty-bladedpenknivesshutthemupindespair;themenwiththepocket-booksmadepocket-booksofthem.Watch-guardsandtoasting-forkswerealikeatadiscount,andpencil-casesandspongeswereadruginthemarket.

           LeavingSamWellertorescuetheluggagefromthesevenoreightporterswhoflungthemselvessavagelyuponit,themomentthecoachstopped,andfindingthattheywereabouttwentyminutestooearly,Mr.

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