It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like a wine-bin for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn by an immense brown horse, displaying great symmetry of bone. An hostler stood near, holding by the bridle another immense horse—apparently a near relative to the animal in the chaise—ready saddled for Mr. Winkle.
“Bless my soul!” said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while the coats were being put in. “Bless my soul! who’s to drive? I never thought of that.”
“Oh! you, of course,” said Mr. Tupman.
“Of course,” said Mr. Snodgrass.
“I!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick.
“Not the slightest fear, sir,” interposed the hostler. “Warrant him quiet, sir; a hinfant in arms might drive him.”
“He don’t shy, does he?” inquired Mr. Pickwick.
“Shy, sir?—He wouldn’t shy if he was to meet a vaggin-load of monkeys with their tails burnt off.”
The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass got into the bin; Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his feet on a floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose.