s, sir.«
    »A what?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »A pike-keeper.«
    »What do you mean by a pike-keeper?« inquired Mr. Peter Magnus.
    »The old 'un means a turnpike keeper, gen'lm'n,« observed Mr. Samuel Weller,
in explanation.
    »Oh,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I see. Yes; very curious life. Very
uncomfortable.«
    »They're all on 'em men as has met vith some disappointment in life,« said
Mr. Weller senior.
    »Ay, ay?« said Mr. Pickwick.
    »Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves
up in pikes; partly vith the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge
themselves on mankind, by takin' tolls.«
    »Dear me,« said Mr. Pickwick, »I never knew that before.«
    »Fact, sir,« said Mr. Weller; »if they was gen'lm'n you'd call 'em
misanthropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin'.«
    With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending
amusement with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of the
journey, during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation were never
wanting, for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller's loquacity, it was
abundantly supplied by the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himself
acquainted with the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and
his loudly-expressed anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and
well-being of the two bags, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel.
    In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way, a short
distance after you have passed through the open space fronting the Town Hall,
stands an inn known far and wide by the appellation of The Great White Horse,
rendered the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with
flowing mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is
elevated above the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the
neighbourhood, in the same degree as a prize ox, or county paper-chronicled
turnip, or unwieldy pig - for its enormous size. Never were such labyrinths of
uncarpeted passages, such clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge
numbers of small dens for eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as
