had been carried on at intervals, during the conclusion of the proceedings—"we shall see you all to-morrow."
"Most certainly," replied Mr. Pickwick.
"You have got the address."
"Manor Farm, Dingley Dell," said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book.
"That's it," said the old gentleman. "I don't let you off, mind, under a week; and undertake that you shall see everything worth seeing. If you've come down for a country life, come to me, and I'll give you plenty of it. Joe—damn that boy, he's gone to sleep again—Joe, help Tom put in the horses."
The horses were put in—the driver mounted—the fat boy clambered up by his side—farewells were exchanged—and the carriage rattled off. As the Pickwickians turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was sunk upon his bosom; and he slumbered again.
