“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 vere 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 a young ’ooman as kep’ a goat; and that wos a French donkey, so wery likely he warn’t vun 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 venever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, vun 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 world, 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.
“I say,” remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as they rolled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head, Towcester, “this won’t do, you know.”
“Bless me!” said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, “I’m afraid you’re wet.”