This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned by seeing Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his knees before the little stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with his pocket-handkerchief. ‘There is an inscription here,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘Is it possible?’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘I can discern,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, rubbing away with all his might, and gazing intently through his spectacles--‘I can discern a cross, and a 13, and then a T. This is important,’ continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. ‘This is some very old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in this place. It must not be lost.’ He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it. ‘Do you know how this stone came here, my friend?’ inquired the benevolent Mr. Pickwick. ‘No, I doan’t, Sir,’ replied the man civilly. ‘It was here long afore I was born, or any on us.’ Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion. ‘You--you--are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,’ said Mr. Pickwick, trembling with anxiety. ‘You wouldn’t mind selling it, now?’ ‘Ah! but who’d buy it?’ inquired the man, with an expression of face which he probably meant to be very cunning. ‘I’ll give you ten shillings for it, at once,’ said Mr. Pickwick, ‘if you would take it up for me.’ The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little stone having been raised with one wrench of a spade) Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having carefully washed it, deposited it on the table. The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned with success. The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular, but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered:-- [cross] B I L S T U M P S H I S. M. ARK Mr. Pickwick’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the treasure he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest objects of his ambition. In a county known to abound in the remains of the early ages; in a village in which there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he--he, the chairman of the Pickwick Club--had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestionable antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses. ‘This--this,’ said he, ‘determines me. We return to town to-morrow.’ ‘To-morrow!’ exclaimed his admiring followers.