“It is, indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “The sun is tremendously hot, even to me. I don’t know how you must feel it.”

“Why,” said the old gentleman, “pretty hot. It’s past twelve, though. You see that green hill there?”

“Certainly.”

“That’s the place where we are to lunch; and, by Jove, there’s the boy with the basket, punctual as clockwork!”

“So he is,” said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. “Good boy, that. I’ll give him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.”