“I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a labourin’ under an unrequited attachment to some young ’ooman,” said Sam. The fat boy shook his head. “Vell,” said Sam, “I’m glad to hear it. Do you ever drink anythin’?” “I likes eating, better,” replied the boy. “Ah,” said Sam, “I should ha’ s’posed that; but what I mean is, should you like a drop of anythin’ as’d warm you? but I s’pose you never was cold, with all them elastic fixtures, was you?” “Sometimes,” replied the boy; “and I likes a drop of something, when it’s good.” “Oh, you do, do you?” said Sam, “come this vay, then.” The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of liquor without so much as winking,—a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr. Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller having transacted a similar piece of business on his own account, they got into the cart. “Can you drive?” said the fat boy. “I should rayther think so,” replied Sam. “There, then,” said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and pointing up a lane, “It’s as straight as you can go; you can’t miss it.” With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by the side of the cod-fish, and placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep instantaneously. “Vell,” said Sam, “of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here young gen’lm’n is about the coolest. Come, vake up, young dropsy.” But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse with a jerk of the rein, jogged steadily on, towards Manor Farm. Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into active circulation, proceeded cheerfully on; the paths were hard, the grass was crisp and frosty, the air had a fine, dry, bracing coldness, and the rapid approach of the grey twilight (slate-coloured is a better term in frosty weather) made them look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at their hospitable entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their great coats and play at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety; and we firmly believe that had Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered “a back,” Mr. Pickwick would have accepted his offer with the utmost avidity. However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such personal accommodation, and the friends walked on, conversing merrily. As they turned into a lane which they had to cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears; and before they had even had time to form a guess as to whom they belonged, they walked into the very centre of the party who were expecting their arrival—a fact which was first notified to the Pickwickians, by the loud “Hurrah,” which burst from old Wardle’s lips, when they appeared in sight.