|8||THE PICKWICK CLUB|
"Cab!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Here you are, sir," shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in a sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who with a brass label and number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This was the waterman. "Here you are, sir. Now, then, fust cab!" And the first cab having been fetched from the public-house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.
"Golden Cross," said Mr. Pickwick.
"Only a bob's vorth, Tommy," cried the driver, sulkily, for the information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
"How old is that horse, my friend?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.
"Forty-two," replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
"What!" ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the man's face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the fact forthwith.
"And how long do you keep him out at a time?" inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for further information.
"Two or three veeks," replied the man.
"Weeks!" said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment—and out came the note-book again.
"He lives at Pentonwil when he's at home," observed the driver, coolly," but we seldom takes him home, on account of his veakness."
"On account of his weakness!" reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.
"He always falls down when he's took out o' the cab," continued the driver, "but when he's in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him in werry short, so as he can't werry well fall down; and we've got a pair o' precious large wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after him, and he must go on—he can't help it."