“Oh you are, are you?” returned Bob. “Yes, I am, a little that way. Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.”
Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck, elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees; and his whole apparel shone so with the wet, that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared oilskin.
“I am rather wet,” said Bob, giving himself a shake, and casting a little hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from the water.
“I think it’s quite impossible to go on to-night,” interposed Ben.
“Out of the question, sir,” remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the conference; “it’s cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ’em to do it. There’s beds here, sir,” said Sam, addressing his master, “everything clean and comfortable. Wery good little dinner, sir, they can get ready in half-an-hour—pair of fowls, sir, and a weal cutlet; French beans, ’taturs, tart, and tidiness. You’d better stop vere you are sir, if I might recommend. Take advice, sir, as the doctor said.”
The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to confirm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to the accommodations of the establishment, and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage, the dead certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in the morning, and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers.
“Well,” said Mr. Pickwick; “but I must send a letter to London by some conveyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the morning, or I must go forward at all hazards.”
The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the gentleman to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on, either by the mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman were particularly anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might write outside, “To be delivered immediately,” which was sure to be attended to; or “Pay the bearer half-a-crown extra for instant delivery,” which was surer still.
“Very well,” said Mr. Pickwick, “then we will stop here.”
“Lights in the Sun, John; make up the fire; the gentlemen are wet!” cried the landlord. “This way, gentlemen; don’t trouble yourselves about the postboy now, sir. I’ll send him to you when you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.”