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‘
Take
two
places
outside
to
London
,
on
Thursday
morning
,
for
yourself
and
me
.
’
‘
Wery
well
,
Sir
.
’
Mr
.
Weller
left
the
room
,
and
departed
slowly
on
his
errand
,
with
his
hands
in
his
pocket
and
his
eyes
fixed
on
the
ground
.
‘
Rum
feller
,
the
hemperor
,
’
said
Mr
.
Weller
,
as
he
walked
slowly
up
the
street
.
‘
Think
o
’
his
makin
’
up
to
that
‘
ere
Mrs
.
Bardell
—
vith
a
little
boy
,
too
!
Always
the
vay
vith
these
here
old
’
uns
howsoever
,
as
is
such
steady
goers
to
look
at
.
I
didn
’
t
think
he
’
d
ha
’
done
it
,
though
—
I
didn
’
t
think
he
’
d
ha
’
done
it
!
’
Moralising
in
this
strain
,
Mr
.
Samuel
Weller
bent
his
steps
towards
the
booking
-
office
.
The
birds
,
who
,
happily
for
their
own
peace
of
mind
and
personal
comfort
,
were
in
blissful
ignorance
of
the
preparations
which
had
been
making
to
astonish
them
,
on
the
first
of
September
,
hailed
it
,
no
doubt
,
as
one
of
the
pleasantest
mornings
they
had
seen
that
season
.
Many
a
young
partridge
who
strutted
complacently
among
the
stubble
,
with
all
the
finicking
coxcombry
of
youth
,
and
many
an
older
one
who
watched
his
levity
out
of
his
little
round
eye
,
with
the
contemptuous
air
of
a
bird
of
wisdom
and
experience
,
alike
unconscious
of
their
approaching
doom
,
basked
in
the
fresh
morning
air
with
lively
and
blithesome
feelings
,
and
a
few
hours
afterwards
were
laid
low
upon
the
earth
.
But
we
grow
affecting
:
let
us
proceed
.
In
plain
commonplace
matter
-
of
-
fact
,
then
,
it
was
a
fine
morning
—
so
fine
that
you
would
scarcely
have
believed
that
the
few
months
of
an
English
summer
had
yet
flown
by
.
Hedges
,
fields
,
and
trees
,
hill
and
moorland
,
presented
to
the
eye
their
ever
-
varying
shades
of
deep
rich
green
;
scarce
a
leaf
had
fallen
,
scarce
a
sprinkle
of
yellow
mingled
with
the
hues
of
summer
,
warned
you
that
autumn
had
begun
.
The
sky
was
cloudless
;
the
sun
shone
out
bright
and
warm
;
the
songs
of
birds
,
the
hum
of
myriads
of
summer
insects
,
filled
the
air
;
and
the
cottage
gardens
,
crowded
with
flowers
of
every
rich
and
beautiful
tint
,
sparkled
,
in
the
heavy
dew
,
like
beds
of
glittering
jewels
.
Everything
bore
the
stamp
of
summer
,
and
none
of
its
beautiful
colour
had
yet
faded
from
the
die
.
Such
was
the
morning
,
when
an
open
carriage
,
in
which
were
three
Pickwickians
(
Mr
.
Snodgrass
having
preferred
to
remain
at
home
)
,
Mr
.
Wardle
,
and
Mr
.
Trundle
,
with
Sam
Weller
on
the
box
beside
the
driver
,
pulled
up
by
a
gate
at
the
roadside
,
before
which
stood
a
tall
,
raw
-
boned
gamekeeper
,
and
a
half
-
booted
,
leather
-
legginged
boy
,
each
bearing
a
bag
of
capacious
dimensions
,
and
accompanied
by
a
brace
of
pointers
.
‘
I
say
,
’
whispered
Mr
.
Winkle
to
Wardle
,
as
the
man
let
down
the
steps
,
‘
they
don
’
t
suppose
we
’
re
going
to
kill
game
enough
to
fill
those
bags
,
do
they
?
’
‘
Fill
them
!
’
exclaimed
old
Wardle
.
‘
Bless
you
,
yes
!
You
shall
fill
one
,
and
I
the
other
;
and
when
we
’
ve
done
with
them
,
the
pockets
of
our
shooting
-
jackets
will
hold
as
much
more
.
’
Mr
.
Winkle
dismounted
without
saying
anything
in
reply
to
this
observation
;
but
he
thought
within
himself
,
that
if
the
party
remained
in
the
open
air
,
till
he
had
filled
one
of
the
bags
,
they
stood
a
considerable
chance
of
catching
colds
in
their
heads
.
