Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

A Field Day and Bivouac — More new Friends — An Invitation to the Country

           Thefreshbottlewasproduced,andspeedilyemptied:thehamperwasmadefastinitsoldplace—thefatboyoncemoremountedthebox—thespectaclesandpocket-glasswereagainadjusted—andtheevolutionsofthemilitaryrecommenced.Therewasagreatfizzingandbangingofguns,andstartingofladies—andthenaMinewassprung,tothegratificationofeverybody—andwhentheminehadgoneoff,themilitaryandthecompanyfolloweditsexample,andwentofftoo.

           ‘Now,mind,’saidtheoldgentleman,asheshookhandswithMr.Pickwickattheconclusionofaconversationwhichhadbeencarriedonatintervals,duringtheconclusionoftheproceedings,"weshallseeyouallto-morrow.’

           ‘Mostcertainly,’repliedMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Youhavegottheaddress?’

           ‘ManorFarm,DingleyDell,’saidMr.Pickwick,consultinghispocket-book.‘That’sit,’saidtheoldgentleman.‘Idon’tletyouoff,mind,underaweek;andundertakethatyoushallseeeverythingworthseeing.Ifyou’vecomedownforacountrylife,cometome,andI’llgiveyouplentyofit.Joe—damnthatboy,he’sgonetosleepagain—Joe,helpTomputinthehorses.’

           Thehorseswereputin—thedrivermounted—thefatboyclamberedupbyhisside—farewellswereexchanged—andthecarriagerattledoff

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