'This here,' replied Sam. 'Without goin' so far as to as-sert, as
some wery sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both
immortal, wot I say is this: that wenever they feels theirselves
gettin' stiff and past their work, they just rides off together, wun
postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on 'em nobody
knows, but it's wery probable as they starts avay to take their
pleasure in some other vorld, for there ain't a man alive as ever
see either a donkey or a postboy a-takin' his pleasure in this!'
Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and
citing many curious statistical and other facts in its support, Sam
Weller beguiled the time until they reached Dunchurch, where a
dry postboy and fresh horses were procured; the next stage was
Daventry, and the next Towcester; and at the end of each stage
it rained harder than it had done at the beginning.
'I say,' remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach
window, as they pulled up before the door of the Saracen's Head,
Towcester, 'this won't do, you know.'
'Bless me!' said Mr. Pickwick, just awakening from a nap, 'I'm
afraid you're wet.'
'Oh, you are, are you?' returned Bob.
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