Over the main entrance is a statute of a white horse, lookin'
considerable like our old mair, only more high-headed.

The original inn had a open court, where stage-coaches drove in to
unload, and from which Mr. Pickwick and his faithful Sam Weller often
alighted.

But instead of using it for horses now, they use it for a smokin'-room
for men; they can't use it for both of 'em, for horses don't want to go
in there--horses don't smoke; tobacco makes 'em sick--sick as a snipe.

Man is the only animal, so fur as I know, who can have tobacco in any
shape put into his mouth without resentin' it, it is so nasty.

Wall, we got a good clean meal there at a reasonable price, though Miss
Plank thought there wuzn't enough emptin' in the bread, and the sponge
cake lacked sugar. But I think they know how to cook there--that inn is
the headquarters of the Pickwick Club. Lots of English folks go there,
as is nateral.

Wall, after we had a lunch and rested for a spell, Josiah proposed that
we should go and see the Transportation Buildin'.

Miss Plank had to leave us now to go home and see about her cookin'. And
we wended on alone.

On our way there we met Thomas J. and Maggie and Isabelle. They wuz jest
a-goin' to Machinery Hall. Maggie and Isabelle looked sweet as two
new-blown roses, and Thomas J. smart and handsome.