patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens, were the two best fiddlers, and the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was up, the candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth, and merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just the place in which they would have held their revels.
If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick's appearing without his gaiters, for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends.
"You mean to dance?" said Wardle.
"Of course I do," replied Mr. Pickwick. "Don't you see I am dressed for the purpose?" Mr. Pickwick called attention to his speckled silk stockings, and smartly tied pumps.
"You in silk stockings!" exclaimed Mr. Tupman jocosely.
"And why not, sir—why not?" said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him.
"Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn't wear them," responded Mr. Tupman.
"I imagine not, sir, I imagine not," said Mr. Pickwick in a very peremptory tone.
Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter; so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern.
"I hope they are," said Mr. Pickwick fixing his eyes upon his friend. "You see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, as stockings, I trust, sir?"
"Certainly not. Oh certainly not," replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away; and Mr. Pickwick's countenance resumed its customary benign expression.
"We are all ready, I believe," said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the old lady at the top of the dance, and had
