Pickwick was busily engaged in counting
the barrels of oysters and superintending the disinterment of
the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the
coat. Looking round, he discovered that the individual who
resorted to this mode of catching his attention was no other than
Mr. Wardle's favourite page, better known to the readers of this
unvarnished history, by the distinguishing appellation of the
fat boy.
'Aha!' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Aha!' said the fat boy.
As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-
barrels, and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.
'Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'I've been asleep, right in front of the taproom fire,' replied the
fat boy, who had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-
pot, in the course of an hour's nap. 'Master sent me over with
the shay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the house. He'd ha'
sent some saddle-horses, but he thought you'd rather walk,
being a cold day.'
'Yes, yes,' said Mr. Pickwick hastily, for he remembered how
they had travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous
occasion.
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