Francis Hopkinson Smith

“ A great old inn in its day, and would be now if they'd get over the idea of making money and settle down to a quiet life with a mug and a rubber of whist and a long-stemmed pipe."
I nodded assent, thanked him for his running commentary, waited a moment in the hope that he would add the Pickwick Club to the list of its distinguished patrons and, finding that he was entirely engrossed in relighting his pipe, jogged his memory with the inquiry:
"And how about Mr. Dickens? He has helped some, hasn't he?" ”

“ Pickwick had his quarters when he stopped in London. Bring the grilled ham, please, and a mug of bass"—this to the waiter, who bowed and backed away.
"Oh, that's it, is it; Dickens, eh!" resumed the man in the grey suit. "Well, it's all true. The club starts from here every year on that coaching trip for Rochester; same trip old Pickwick, Jingle, and the others made. You're going there, of course?" ”

“ Pickwick would have picked out had he wanted to lead a quiet life."
He regarded me curiously.
"Got it that bad, have you! Well, maybe that's better than not believing in anything at all. Dickens has put about forty inns in 'Pickwick' and about forty more in his other books; this one goes back to ... Here, John"—this to a waiter, making a combined Mercury and caryatid of himself, his tray held high—"when you dump that get me one of those little books. It'll cost a shilling," he added, turning to me, "but you'd better have it; it'll save you a lot of trouble." ”