the old steps—little Saxon doors—confessionals like money-takers' boxes at theatres—queer customers those monks—Popes, and Lord Treasurers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning up every day—buff jerkins too—match-locks—Sarcophagus—fine place—old legends too—strange stories: capital;" and the stranger continued to soliloquise until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped.
"Do you remain here, sir?" inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle.
"Here—not I but—you'd better—good house—nice beds—Wright's next house, dear—very dear—half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the waiter—charge you more if you dine at a friend's than they would if you dined in the coffee-room—rum fellows—very."
Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. Pickwick, and murmured a few words; a whisper passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snodgrass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger.
"You rendered us a very important service this morning, sir," said he, "will you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of your company at dinner?"
"Great pleasure—not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms—capital thing! what time ?"
"Let me see," replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, "it is now nearly three. Shall we say five?"
"Suit me excellently," said the stranger, "five precisely—till then—care of yourselves;" and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from his head, and carelessly replacing it very much on one side, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel sticking out of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High Street.
"Evidently a traveller in many countries, and a close observer of men and things," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I should like to see his poem," said Mr. Snodgrass.
"I should like to have seen that dog," said Mr. Winkle.
Mr. Tupman said nothing; but he thought of Donna
