'Here you are, Sir,' shouted a strange-looking man. This man was wearing a cheap coat and and had a brass label and number round his neck, so he looked as if he were on display in some collection. This was the porter, whose job it was to call the taxis. 'Here you are, Sir. Now, then, first cab!' So the first cab driver was fetched from the public-house, where he had been smoking his first pipeof the day. Mr Pickwick's suitcase was thown in to the vehicle, and then Mr Pickwick after it.

'I want to go to Golden Cross,' said Mr Pickwick.

'He's not going very far,' the driver told his friend the porter, as the cab drove off. 'I'll only get a shilling for the whole journey.' He did not sound very pleased.

'How old is that horse, my friend?' asked Mr Pickwick, holding the shilling he would use to pay the cab driver with.

'Forty-two years old,' replied the driver, giving Pickwick a strangely angry look.

'What!' exclaimed Mr Pickwick, opening up his note-book. The driver repeated his statement. Mr Pickwick looked very hard at the man's face to see if he was joking, but the cabbie's expression was completely serious. So Pickwick wrote the information down in his notebook.

'And how long do you take the horse out to work each time?' inquired Mr Pickwick, searching for further information.