‘Wos you ever called in,’ inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a short silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper—‘wos you ever called in, when you wos ‘prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a postboy.’
‘I don’t remember that I ever was,’ replied Bob Sawyer.
‘You never see a postboy in that ‘ere hospital as you walked (as they says o’ the ghosts), did you?’ demanded Sam.
‘No,’ replied Bob Sawyer. ‘I don’t think I ever did.’
‘Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s tombstone, or see a dead postboy, did you?’ inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism.
‘No,’ rejoined Bob, ‘I never did.’
‘No!’ rejoined Sam triumphantly. ‘Nor never vill; and there’s another thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No man never see a dead donkey ‘cept the gen’l’m’n in the black silk smalls as know’d the young ‘ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery likely he warn’t wun o’ the reg’lar breed.’
‘Well, what has that got to do with the postboys?’ asked Bob Sawyer.
‘This here,’ replied Sam. ‘Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ‘em nobody knows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take their pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as ever see either a donkey or a postboy a-takin’ his pleasure in this!’
Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage it rained harder than it had done at the beginning.