The two last-named were bent on making a merry day of it, and as soon as they were beyond the boundaries of Bristol they began their tricks by changing hats, taking liquid and substantial refreshments to the amusement of the passers-by, and the astonishment of Mr. Pickwick.  But the journey need not be described here.  Suffice it to say that the hilarious pair outside, come what may, meant to make a day of it.  Their first stop, ostensibly to change horses, was at the “Bell,” Berkeley Heath, on the high road between Bristol and Gloucester.

“I say, we’re going to dine here, aren’t we?” said Bob, looking in at the window.

“Dine!” said Mr. Pickwick.  “Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and have got eighty-seven and a half to go.”

“Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up against the fatigue,” remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer.

“Oh, it’s quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o’clock in the day,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch.

“So it is,” rejoined Bob, “lunch is the very thing.  Hallo, you sir!  Lunch for three, directly, and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour.  Tell them to put everything they have cold, on the table, and some bottled ale, and let us taste your very best Madeira.”  Issuing these orders with monstrous importance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to superintend the arrangements; in less than five minutes he returned and declared them to be excellent.

[illustration:  The Bell Inn, Berkeley Heath.  Drawn by C. G. Harper]

The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman, but by Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Pickwick also.  In the hands of the thirsty three, the bottled ale and the Madeira were promptly disposed of; and when (the horses being once more put to) they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of the best substitute for milk-punch that could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle sounded, and the red flag waved, without the sightest opposition on Mr. Pickwick’s part.

The unpretentious roadside inn still exists to-day, unaltered since the above-mentioned memorable occasion.  It cherishes its Dickensian association by curiously and oddly announcing on its signboard that:  “Charles Dickens and Party lunched here 1827.  B. C. Hooper.”

It is within a mile of Berkeley Road Station on the Bristol Road, and about the same distance from the town of Berkeley.  It lies back from the main road, and is a rambling old house and of good age.  Although it has no more mention in the book than that given above, it is well known far and wide, nevertheless.  As the Pickwickians did not stay there the inn is deprived of the privilege of showing a room in which the illustrious men slept, as is done in the case of other inns; but it has been recorded by one proprietor that travellers have called there for no other purpose than that of drinking Dickens’s health in the snug parlour.