in the green jemmy--damn me--punch his head,--'cod
I would,--pig's whisper--pieman too,--no gammon.'

This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester
coachman, to announce that 'the Commodore' was on the point of starting.

'Commodore!' said the stranger, starting up, 'my coach--place
booked,--one outside--leave you to pay for the brandy-and-water,--want
change for a five,--bad silver--Brummagem buttons--won't do--no go--eh?'
and he shook his head most knowingly.

Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had
resolved to make Rochester their first halting-place too; and having
intimated to their new-found acquaintance that they were journeying to
the same city, they agreed to occupy the seat at the back of the coach,
where they could all sit together.

'Up with you,' said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof
with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman's
deportment very materially.

'Any luggage, Sir?' inquired the coachman. 'Who--I? Brown paper parcel
here, that's all--other luggage gone by water--packing-cases, nailed
up--big as houses--heavy, heavy, damned heavy,' replied the stranger, as
he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel,
which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and
a handkerchief.

'Heads, heads--take care of your heads!' cried the loquacious stranger,
as they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed
the entrance to the coach-yard. 'Terrible place--dangerous work--other
day--five children--mother--tall lady, eating sandwiches--forgot the
arch--crash--knock--children look round--mother's head off--sandwich
in her hand--no mouth to put it in--head of a family off--shocking,
shocking! Looking at Whitehall, sir?--fine place--little
window--somebody else's head off there, eh, sir?--he didn't keep a sharp
look-out enough either--eh, Sir, eh?'

'I am ruminating,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'on the strange mutability of
human affairs.'

'Ah! I see--in at the palace door one day, out at the window the
next. Philosopher, Sir?' 'An observer of human nature, Sir,' said Mr.
Pickwick.

'Ah, so am I. Most people are when they've little to do and less to get.
Poet, Sir?'

'My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,' said Mr. Pickwick.

'So have I,' said the stranger. 'Epic poem--ten thousand
lines--revolution of July--composed it on the spot--Mars by da