Winkle cries “All right,” and off they start. Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear; and they are once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air blowing in their faces, and gladdening their very hearts within them. [Illustration] Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell; and at three o’clock that afternoon, they all stood, high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of the Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough of ale and brandy, to enable them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, and weaving its beautiful net-work upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters, and superintending the disinterment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the coat; and looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted to this mode of catching his attention, was no other than Mr. Wardle’s favourite page, better known to the readers of this unvarnished history by the distinguishing appellation of the fat boy. “Aha!” said Mr. Pickwick. “Aha!” said the fat boy. And as he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster barrels, and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever. “Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I’ve been asleep, right in front of the tap-room fire,” replied the fat boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the course of an hour’s nap. “Master sent me over with the chay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day.” “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily, for he remembered how they had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. “Yes, we would rather walk. Here, Sam.” “Sir,” said Mr. Weller. “Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and then ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.” Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the things rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working by himself. “There,” said Sam, throwing in the last carpet bag. “There they are.” “Yes,” said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, “there they are.” “Vell, young twenty stun,” said Sam, “you’re a nice specimen of a prize boy, you are.” “Thankee,” said the fat boy. “You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind, as makes you fret yourself, have you?” inquired Sam. “Not as I knows on,” replied the boy.