When he had got about half-way, he
turned his head, and seeing that I was still looking after him and
that I waved my hand, stopped, evidently irresolute whether to come
back and shake hands again, or to go on. The man behind the
omnibus shouted, and Mr. Pickwick ran a little way towards him:
then he looked round at me, and ran a little way back again. Then
there was another shout, and he turned round once more and ran the
other way. After several of these vibrations, the man settled the
question by taking Mr. Pickwick by the arm and putting him into the
carriage; but his last action was to let down the window and wave
his hat to me as it drove off.
I lost no time in opening the parcel he had left with me. The
following were its contents:-
MR. PICKWICK'S TALE
A good many years have passed away since old John Podgers lived in
the town of Windsor, where he was born, and where, in course of
time, he came to be comfortably and snugly buried. You may be sure
that in the time of King James the First, Windsor was a very quaint
queer old town, and you may take it upon my authority that John
Podgers was a very quaint queer old fellow; consequently he and
Windsor fitted each other to a nicety, and seldom parted company
even for half a day.
John Podgers was broad, sturdy, Dutch-built, short, and a very hard
eater, as men of his figure often are. Being a hard sleeper
likewise, he divided his time pretty equally between these two
recreations, always falling asleep when he had done eating, and
always taking another turn at the trencher when he had done
sleeping, by which means he grew more corpulent and more drowsy
every day of his life.
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