'They must smoke a lot of tobacco in these towns,' wrote Mr Pickwick, 'because the smell is everywhere in the streets. It must be and must be extremely delicious to those who are very fond of smoking. A traveller might object to the dirt, which is the first thing you notice; but if you think a little bit more, you will find that the dirt is a sign of traffic and commercial wealth, so in fact it is truly pleasing to see'.

The stranger came to dinner at exactly five o'clock , and shortly afterwards the dinner came too. The stranger no longer carried his brown paper parcel, but was still wearing the same clothes. He was, if possible, even more talkative than before. 'What's that?' he inquired, as the waiter removed one of the covers from the food.

'Sole? - ah! - that is an excellent fish - they all come from London. The stagecoach owners bring them up for their dinners - dozens of baskets - they are very clever fellows. Let's have a glass of wine, Sir.' And the stranger drank some wine, first with Mr Pickwick, and then with Mr Snodgrass, and then with Mr Tupman, and then with Mr Winkle, and then with everyone together. He drank almost as quickly as he talked.