In which Mr. Pickwick encounters an old Acquaintance — To which fortunate Circumstance the Reader is

           ThemorningwhichbrokeuponMr.Pickwick’ssightateighto’clock,wasnotatallcalculatedtoelevatehisspirits,ortolessenthedepressionwhichtheunlooked-forresultofhisembassyinspired.Theskywasdarkandgloomy,theairwasdampandraw,thestreetswerewetandsloppy.Thesmokehungsluggishlyabovethechimney-topsasifitlackedthecouragetorise,andtheraincameslowlyanddoggedlydown,asifithadnoteventhespirittopour.Agame-cockinthestableyard,deprivedofeverysparkofhisaccustomedanimation,balancedhimselfdismallyononeleginacorner;adonkey,mopingwithdroopingheadunderthenarrowroofofanouthouse,appearedfromhismeditativeandmiserablecountenancetobecontemplatingsuicide.Inthestreet,umbrellasweretheonlythingstobeseen,andtheclickingofpattensandsplashingofrain-dropsweretheonlysoundstobeheard.

           Thebreakfastwasinterruptedbyverylittleconversation;evenMr.BobSawyerfelttheinfluenceoftheweather,andthepreviousday’sexcitement.Inhisownexpressivelanguagehewas‘floored.’SowasMr.BenAllen.SowasMr.Pickwick.

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