“Now, shiny Villiam,” said the hostler to the deputy hostler, “give the gen’lm’n the ribbins.” “Shiny Villiam”—so called, probably, from his sleek hair and oily countenance—placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick’s left hand; and the upper hostler thrust a whip into his right.
“Wo—o!” cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided inclination to back into the coffee-room window.
“Wo—o!” echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin.
“Only his playfulness, gen’lm’n,” said the head hostler encouragingly; “jist kitch hold on him, Villiam.” The deputy restrained the animal’s impetuosity, and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winkle in mounting.
“T’other side, sir, if you please.”
“Blowed if the gen’lm’n worn’t gettin’ up on the wrong side,” whispered a grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter.
Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as much difficulty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate man-of-war.
“All right?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it was all wrong.
“All right,” replied Mr. Winkle faintly.
“Let ’em go,” cried the hostler,—“Hold him in, sir,” and away went the chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one, and Mr. Winkle on the back of the other, to the delight and gratification of the whole inn-yard.