Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pickwickians ( Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before which stood a tall, rawboned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and accompanied by a brace of pointers.

“I say,” whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, “they don’t suppose we’re going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they?”

“Fill them!” exclaimed old Wardle. “Bless you, yes! You shall fill one, and I the other; and when we’ve done with them, the pockets of our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.”