Chapter 51

CHAPTER LI
IN WHICH Mr. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD
ACQUAINTANCE--TO WHICH FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE
THE READER IS MAINLY INDEBTED FOR MATTER OF
THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN, CONCERNING
TWO GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF MIGHT AND POWER

The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick's sight at eight
o'clock, was not at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or
to lessen the depression which the unlooked-for result of his
embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air was damp
and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly
above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and
the rain came slowly and doggedly down, as if it had not even the
spirit to pour. A game-cock in the stableyard, deprived of every
spark of his accustomed animation, balanced himself dismally on
one leg in a corner; a donkey, moping with drooping head under the
narrow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and
miserable countenance to be contemplating suicide. In the
street, umbrellas were the only things to be seen, and the
clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops were the only
sounds to be heard.

The breakfast was interrupted by very little conversation; even
Mr. Bob Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous
day's excitement. In his own expressive language he was 'floored.'
So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was Mr. Pickwick.

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last
evening paper from London was read and re-read with an
intensity of interest only known in cases of extreme destitution;
every inch of the carpet was walked over with similar perseverance;
the windows were looked out of, often enough to justify
the imposition of an additional duty upon them; all kinds of
topics of conversation were started, and failed; and at length
Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrived, without a change for the
better, rang the bell resolutely, and ordered out the chaise.

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came
down harder than it had done yet, and although the mud and wet
splashed in at the open windows of the carriage to such an
extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair of
insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the
motion, and the sense of being up and doing, which was so
infinitely superior to being pent in a dull room, looking at the
dull rain dripping into a dull street, that they all agreed, on
starting, that the change was a great improvement, and wondered
how they could possibly have delayed making it as long as they
had done.

When they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended
from the horses in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler,
whose