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. ‘Yes, I am, a little that way, Uncomfortably damp, perhaps.’
Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck, elbows, cuffs,
