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.