“Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,” said Mr. Pickwick.
“I’ve been asleep, right in front of the tap-room fire,” replied the fat boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the course of an hour’s nap. “Master sent me over with the chay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, being a cold day.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily, for he remembered how they had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. “Yes, we would rather walk. Here, Sam.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Weller.
“Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and then ride on with him. We will walk forward at once.”
Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly away, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time. Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word; and began to stow the things rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller working by himself.
“There,” said Sam, throwing in the last carpet bag. “There they are.”
“Yes,” said the fat boy, in a very satisfied tone, “there they are.”
“Vell, young twenty stun,” said Sam, “you’re a nice specimen of a prize boy, you are.”
“Thankee,” said the fat boy.