uche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better
to accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman,
in a blue coat and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top-boots,
two young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a young gentleman apparently
enamoured of one of the young ladies in scarfs and feathers, a lady of
doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, and Mr. Tupman, as
easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family from the first
moments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a hamper
of spacious dimensions--one of those hampers which always awakens in a
contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues, and
bottles of wine--and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state
of somnolency, whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an
instant without setting down as the official dispenser of the contents
of the before-mentioned hamper, when the proper time for their
consumption should arrive.

Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects,
when he was again greeted by his faithful disciple.

'Pickwick--Pickwick,' said Mr. Tupman; 'come up here. Make haste.'

'Come along, Sir. Pray, come up,' said the stout gentleman. 'Joe!--damn
that boy, he's gone to sleep again.--Joe, let down the steps.' The fat
boy rolled slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage
door invitingly open. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the
moment.

'Room for you all, gentlemen,' said the stout man. 'Two inside, and one
out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, Sir,
come along;' and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled first
Mr. Pickwick, and then Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force.
Mr. Winkle mounted to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch,
and fell fast asleep instantly.

'Well, gentlemen,' said the stout man, 'very glad to see you. Know
you very well, gentlemen, though you mayn't remember me. I spent some
ev'nin's at your club last winter--picked up my friend Mr. Tupman here
this morning, and very glad I was to see him. Well, Sir, and how are
you? You do look uncommon well, to be sure.'

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook hands with
the stout gentleman in the top-boots.

'Well, and how are you, sir?' said the stout gentleman, addressing
Mr. Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. 'Charming, eh? Well, that's
right--that's right. And