The Pickwick Papers | Page 7

May, one thousand
eight hundred and twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like
another sun from his slumbers, threw open his chamber window, and
looked out upon the world beneath. Goswell Street was at his feet,
Goswell Street was on his right hand--as far as the eye could reach,
Goswell Street extended on his left; and the opposite side of Goswell
Street was over the way. 'Such,' thought Mr. Pickwick, 'are the narrow
views of those philosophers who, content with examining the things
that lie before them, look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As
well might I be content to gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one
effort to penetrate to the hidden countries which on every side surround
it.' And having given vent to this beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick
proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and his clothes into his
portmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the arrangement
of their attire; the operation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing
was soon performed; and, in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, with his
portmanteau in his hand, his telescope in his greatcoat pocket, and his
note-book in his waistcoat, ready for the reception of any discoveries
worthy of being noted down, had arrived at the coach-stand in St.
Martin's-le-Grand. 'Cab!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Here you are, sir,' shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in a
sackcloth coat, and apron of the same, who, with a brass label and
number round his neck, looked as if he were catalogued in some
collection of rarities. This was the waterman. 'Here you are, sir. Now,

then, fust cab!' And the first cab having been fetched from the
public-house, where he had been smoking his first pipe, Mr. Pickwick
and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle.
'Golden Cross,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Only a bob's vorth, Tommy,' cried the driver sulkily, for the
information of his friend the waterman, as the cab drove off.
'How old is that horse, my friend?' inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his
nose with the shilling he had reserved for the fare.
'Forty-two,' replied the driver, eyeing him askant.
'What!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book.
The driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very
hard at the man's face, but his features were immovable, so he noted
down the fact forthwith. 'And how long do you keep him out at a
time?'inquired Mr. Pickwick, searching for further information.
'Two or three veeks,' replied the man.
'Weeks!' said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment, and out came the
note-book again.
'He lives at Pentonwil when he's at home,' observed the driver coolly,
'but we seldom takes him home, on account of his weakness.'
'On account of his weakness!' reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick.
'He always falls down when he's took out o' the cab,' continued the
driver, 'but when he's in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him
in werry short, so as he can't werry well fall down; and we've got a pair
o' precious large wheels on, so ven he does move, they run after him,
and he must go on--he can't help it.'
Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note- book,
with the view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of
the tenacity of life in horses under trying circumstances. The entry was

scarcely completed when they reached the Golden Cross. Down
jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Tupman, Mr.
Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously waiting the arrival
of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him.
'Here's your fare,' said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the
driver.
What was the learned man's astonishment, when that unaccountable
person flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative
terms to be allowed the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the
amount!
'You are mad,' said Mr. Snodgrass.
'Or drunk,' said Mr. Winkle.
'Or both,' said Mr. Tupman.
'Come on!' said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. 'Come
on--all four on you.'
'Here's a lark!' shouted half a dozen hackney coachmen. 'Go to vork,
Sam!--and they crowded with great glee round the party.
'What's the row, Sam?' inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves.
'Row!' replied the cabman, 'what did he want my number for?' 'I didn't
want your number,' said the astonished Mr. Pickwick.
'What did you take it for, then?' inquired the cabman.
'I didn't take it,' said Mr. Pickwick indignantly.
'Would anybody believe,' continued the cab-driver, appealing to the
crowd, 'would anybody believe as an informer'ud go about in a man's
cab, not only takin' down his number, but ev'ry word he says into the
bargain' (a light flashed upon Mr. Pickwick--it was the note-book).

'Did he though?' inquired another cabman.