A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr.Pickwick and Mr.Tupman come running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having a glass of ale a-piece, and Mr.Pickwick's fingers are so cold that he has been full five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it.

The coachman shouts an admonitory 'Now then, gen'l'm'n,' the guard re-echoes it; the old gentleman inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people WILL get down when they know there isn't time for it; Mr.Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr.Tupman on the other; Mr.Winkle cries 'All right'; and off they start.

Shawls are pulled up, coat collars are readjusted, 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.
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 network 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.

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.
As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and chuckled joyously.