I
THE PICKWICK CLUB. 187
with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning's grounds, at all erents, and to meet us at lunch, if you don't take the field."
" Well then, the day after," said Mr. Pickwick ; " Thursday Sara."
" Sir," replied Mr. Weller.
" Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me."
" Wery well, Sir."
Mr. Weller left the looin, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pocket, and his eyes fixed on the ground.
" Rum feller, the hemperor," said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the street. " Think o' his makin' up to that ere Mrs. Bardell — vith a little boy, too ! Always the vay vith these here old 'uns hows'ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn't think he'd ha' done it, though — I didn't think he'd ha' done it." And moralising in this strain^ Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office.
CHAPTER XIX.
A PLEASANT DAY, WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION.
The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind, and personal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, on the first of September, hailed it no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the conlemptuoas air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting : let us proceed.
In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning — so fine that you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye their ever-varying shades of deep rich green ; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless ; the sun shone out bright and warm ; the songs of birds, and hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air ; and the cottage gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled in the heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colours had yet faded from the die.
Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians, (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home,) Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the road-side, before which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-leggined boy : each
