Посмертные записки Пиквикского клуба

The first Day’s Journey, and the first Evening’s Adventures; with their Consequences

           

           ‘Hereyouare,sir,’shoutedastrangespecimenofthehumanrace,inasackclothcoat,andapronofthesame,who,withabrasslabelandnumberroundhisneck,lookedasifhewerecataloguedinsomecollectionofrarities.Thiswasthewaterman.‘Hereyouare,sir.Now,then,fustcab!’Andthefirstcabhavingbeenfetchedfromthepublic-house,wherehehadbeensmokinghisfirstpipe,Mr.Pickwickandhisportmanteauwerethrownintothevehicle.

           ‘GoldenCross,’saidMr.Pickwick.

           ‘Onlyabob’svorth,Tommy,’criedthedriversulkily,fortheinformationofhisfriendthewaterman,asthecabdroveoff.

           ‘Howoldisthathorse,myfriend?’inquiredMr.Pickwick,rubbinghisnosewiththeshillinghehadreservedforthefare.

           ‘Forty-two,’repliedthedriver,eyeinghimaskant.

           ‘What!’ejaculatedMr.Pickwick,layinghishanduponhisnote-book.Thedriverreiteratedhisformerstatement.Mr.Pickwicklookedveryhardattheman’sface,buthisfeatureswereimmovable,sohenoteddownthefactforthwith.‘Andhowlongdoyoukeephimoutatatime?‘inquiredMr.Pickwick,searchingforfurtherinformation.

           ‘Twoorthreeveeks,’repliedtheman.

           ‘Weeks!’saidMr.Pickwickinastonishment,andoutcamethenote-bookagain.

           ‘HelivesatPentonwilwhenhe’sathome,’observedthedrivercoolly,‘butweseldomtakeshimhome,onaccountofhisweakness.

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