'Up with you,' said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to
the roof with so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of
that gentleman's deportment very materially.
'Any luggage, Sir?' inquired the coachman.
'Who--I? Brown paper parcel here, that's all--other luggage
gone by water--packing-cases, nailed up--big as houses--
heavy, heavy, damned heavy,' replied the stranger, as he forced
into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper parcel,
which presented most suspicious indications of containing one
shirt and a handkerchief.
'Heads, heads--take care of your heads!' cried the loquacious
stranger, as they came out under the low archway, which in those
days formed the entrance to the coach-yard. 'Terrible place--
dangerous work--other day--five children--mother--tall lady,
eating sandwiches--forgot the arch--crash--knock--children
look round--mother's head off--sandwich in her hand--no
mouth to put it in--head of a family off--shocking, shocking!
Looking at Whitehall, sir?--fine place--little window--somebody
else's head off there, eh, sir?--he didn't keep a sharp
look-out enough either--eh, Sir, eh?'
'I am ruminating,' said Mr.
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