'
The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his
clerk's professional estimate of Mr. Pickwick's character, for he
walked away without deigning any reply.
The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-
coaches usually do. The horses 'went better', the driver said,
when they had anything before them (they must have gone at
a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing), and so
the vehicle kept behind a cart; when the cart stopped, it stopped;
and when the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick
sat opposite the tipstaff; and the tipstaff sat with his hat between
his knees, whistling a tune, and looking out of the coach window.
Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman's aid,
even a hackney-coach gets over half a mile of ground. They
stopped at length, and Mr. Pickwick alighted at the gate of the Fleet.
The tipstaff, just looking over his shoulder to see that his
charge was following close at his heels, preceded Mr. Pickwick
into the prison; turning to the left, after they had entered, they
passed through an open door into a lobby, from which a heavy
gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and which was
guarded by a stout turnkey with the key in his hand, led at once
into the interior of the prison.
Pages:
1003
1004
1005
1006
1007
1008
1009
1010
1011
1012
1013
1014
1015
1016
1017
1018
1019
1020
1021
1022
1023
1024
1025
1026
1027