 8. The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the gentler sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf were all favorable to the growth and development of those softer feelings which nature had implanted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy Tubman, and which now appeared destined to center in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty, their manners winning, their dispositions unexceptionable. But there was a dignity in the air, a touch-me-nottishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye of the spinster aunt to which, at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which distinguished her from any female on whom Mr. Tubman had ever gazed. That there was something kindred in their nature, something congenial in their souls, something mysteriously sympathetic in their bosoms was evident. Her name was the first that rose to Mr. Tubman's lips as he lay wounded on the grass, and her hysteric laughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported to the house. But had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility which would have been equally irrepressible in any case, or had it been called forth by a more ardent and passionate feeling which he, of all men living, could alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay extended on the sofa. These were the doubts which he determined should be at once and forever resolved. It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle. The deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair. The snoring of the fat boy penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen. The buxom servants were lounging at the side door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour and the delights of a flirtation on first principles with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm. And there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves. There they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully folded kid gloves bound up in each other. I have forgotten my flowers, said the spinster aunt. Water them now, said Mr. Tubman, in accents of persuasion. You will take cold in the evening air, urged the spinster aunt affectionately. No, no, said Mr. Tubman, rising. It will do me good. Let me accompany you. The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden. There was a bower at the farther end, with honeysuckle, jesemmon, and creeping plants, one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders. The spinster aunt took up a large watering pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbor. Mr. Tubman detained her and drew her to his seat beside him. Miss Wardle, said he. The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering pot shook like an infant's rattle. Miss Wardle, said Mr. Tubman, you are an angel. Mr. Tubman exclaimed Rachel, blushing as red as the watering pot itself. Nay, said the eloquent pick-wicky, and I know it but too well. All women are angels, they say, when were the lady playfully. Then what can you be, or to what, without presumption can I compare you? replied Mr. Tubman. Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek to—oh. Here Mr. Tubman paused and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering pot. The lady turned aside her head. Men are such deceivers, she softly whispered. They are, they are, ejaculated Mr. Tubman, but not all men. There lives at least one being who could never change, one being who would be content to devote his whole existence to your happiness, who lives but in your eyes, who breathes but in your smiles, who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you. Could such an individual be found? said the lady. But he can be found, said the ardent Mr. Tubman, interposing. He is found. He is here, Ms. Wardle. And ere the lady was aware of his intention, Mr. Tubman had sunk upon his knees at her feet. Mr. Tubman, rise! said Rachel. Never was the valorous reply. Oh Rachel, he seized her passive hand, and the watering pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips. Oh Rachel, say you love me. Mr. Tubman, said the spinster ant with averted head. I can hardly speak the words, but you were not wholly indifferent to me. Mr. Tubman no sooner heard this avowal than he proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what for ought we know, for we are but little acquainted with such matters, people so circumstanced always do. He jumped up and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster ant, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which, after a due show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively that there is no telling how many more Mr. Tubman might have bestowed. If the lady had not given a very unaffected start and exclaimed in an affrighted tone, Mr. Tubman, we are observed. We are discovered. Mr. Tubman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbor, but without the slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tubman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him, and the longer Mr. Tubman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the more convinced he became that he either did not know or did not understand anything that had been going forward. Under this impression he said, with great firmness, What do you want here, sir? Supper's ready, sir, was the prompt reply. Have you just come here, sir? inquired Mr. Tubman with a piercing look. Just replied the fat boy. Mr. Tubman looked at him very hard again, but there was not a wink in his eye or a curve in his face. Mr. Tubman took the arm of the spinster aunt and walked towards the house. The fat boy followed behind. He knows nothing of what has happened, he whispered. Nothing, said the spinster aunt. There was a sound behind them as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. Tubman turned sharply round. No, it could not have been the fat boy. There was not a gleam of mirth or anything but feeding in his whole visage. He must have been fast asleep, whispered Mr. Tubman. I have not the least doubt of it, replied the spinster aunt. They both laughed heartily. Mr. Tubman was wrong. The fat boy for once had not been fast asleep. He was awake, wide awake to what had been going forward. The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old lady had gone to bed. Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle. The spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Tubman, and Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object. Possibly they were with the absent snodgrass. Eleven, twelve, one o'clock it struck, and the gentleman had not arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been way laid and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed likely to have traveled home? Or should they hark? There they were. What could have made them so late? A strange voice, too, to whom could it belong? They rushed into the kitchen, whether the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the case. Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked completely over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved there into by any discernible cause or pretense whatsoever. Old Mr. Wardle, with a highly inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman muttering protest stations of eternal friendship. Mr. Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night, and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine portrayed in every liniment of his expressive face. Is anything the matter? inquired the three ladies. Nothing in the matter, replied Mr. Pickwick. We were all right. I said, Wardle, we're all right, ain't we? I should think so, replied the jolly host. My dearest, here's my friend Mr. Jingle, Mr. Pickwick's friend. Mr. Jingle, compound little visit. Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir? inquired Emily with great anxiety. Nothing in the matter, ma'am, replied the stranger. Cricket dinner, glorious party, capital songs, old port, cleric. Good, very good, wine, ma'am, wine. It wasn't the wine, murmured Mr. Snodgrass in a broken voice. It was the salmon. Somehow or other, it never is the wine in these cases. Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am, inquired Emma. Two of the boys will carry the gentleman upstairs. I won't go to bed, said Mr. Winkle firmly. No living boy shall carry me, said Mr. Pickwick stoutly, and he went on smiling as before. Hurrah, gasped Mr. Winkle faintly. Hurrah, echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the floor and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. At this humorous feat, he laughed outright. Let's have another bottle, cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very loud key and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast and muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed and a sanguinary regret that he had not done for Old Topman in the morning. He fell fast asleep, in which condition he was born to his apartment by two young giants under the personal superintendents of the fat boy. To whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided his own person. Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr. Topman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever. And Mr. Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honor of conveying him upstairs and retired with a very futile attempt to look impressively solemn and dignified. What a shocking scene, said the spinster aunt. Disgusting, ejaculated both the young ladies. Dreadful, dreadful, said Jingle, looking very grave. He was about a bottle and a half ahead of any of his companions. Hard spectacle, very. What a nice man, whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Topman. Good-looking too, whispered Emily Wardle. Oh, decidedly, observed the spinster aunt. Mr. Topman thought of the widow at Rochester, and his mind was troubled. The succeeding half-hour's conversation was not of a nature to calm his perturbed spirit. The new visitor was very talkative, and the number of his anecdotes was only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Topman felt that as Jingle's popularity increased, he, Topman, retired further into the shade. His laughter was forced, his merriment feigned, and when at last he laid his aching temples between the sheets, he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it would afford him to have Jingle's head at that moment between the feather bed and the mattress. The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and although his companions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the previous night, exerted himself most successfully to promote the hilarity of the breakfast table. So successful were his efforts that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet. And even Sheikhan descended to observe to the spinster aunt that he, meaning Jingle, was an impudent young fellow, a sentiment in which all her relations then and their present thoroughly coincided. It was the old lady's habit on the fine summer mornings, to repair to the arbor in which Mr. Topman had already signalized himself in form and manner following. First the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old lady's bedroom door a closed black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a capacious handle. And the old lady, having put on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would lean one hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy's shoulder and walk leisurely to the arbor, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for the space of half an hour, at the expiration of which time he would return and reconduct her to the house. The old lady was very precise and very particular, and as this ceremony had been observed for three successive summers, without the slightest deviation from the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on this particular morning to see the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbor, walk a few paces out of it, look carefully round him in every direction, and return towards her with great stealth and in air of the most profound mystery. The old lady was timorous, most old ladies are, and her first impression was that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm, with a view of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming. She therefore watched his motions with feelings of intense horror, which were in no degree diminished by his coming close up to her and shouting in her ear in an agitated, and as it seemed to her a threatening tone, misses. Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to the arbor at that moment. He too heard the shouts of misses, and stopped to hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the first place he was idle and curious. Secondly he was by no means scrupulous. Thirdly and lastly he was concealed from view by some flowering shrubs. So there he stood and there he listened. Misses shouted the fat boy. Well, Joe, said the trembling old lady, I'm sure I have been a good mistress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You have never had too much to do, and you have always had enough to eat. This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most sensitive feelings. He seemed touched as he replied emphatically. I knows I has. Then what can you want to do now? said the old lady, gaining courage. I want to make your flesh creep, replied the boy. This sounded like a very bloodthirsty mode of showing one's gratitude, and as the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which such a result was to be attained, all her former horrors returned. What do you think I see in this very arbor last night, inquired the boy. Bless us, what! exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner of the corpulent youth. The strange gentleman, human's head his arm hurt, a kiss in and hugging. Who, Joe? None of the servants, I hope. Worse than that, roared the fat boy in the old lady's ear. Not one of my granddaughters. Worse than that. Worse than that, Joe, said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme limit of human atrocity. Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing. The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey, shouted in the old lady's ear, Miss Rachel. What, said the old lady in a shrill tone, speak louder. Miss Rachel, roared the fat boy. My daughter? The train of nods, which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated a blunk-mange-like motion to his fat cheeks. And she suffered him? exclaimed the old lady. A grin stole over the fat boy's features, as he said. I see her a-kissing of him again. If Mr. Jingle from his place of concealment could have beheld the expression, which the old lady's face assumed at this communication, the probability is that a sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his close vicinity to the summer house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry sentences such as, without my permission, at her time of life, miserable old omen like me, might have waited till I was dead, and so forth reached his ears. And then he heard the heels of the fat boy's boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left the old lady alone. It was a remarkable coincidence, perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact that Mr. Jingle, within five minutes of his arrival at Manor Farm on the preceding night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the spinster aunt without delay. He had observation enough to see that his offhand manner was by no means disagreeable to the fair object of his attack. And he had more than a strong suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of all requisites, a small independence. The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceedings tending to that end in object without a moment's delay. Fielding tells us that man is fire and woman toe, and the Prince of Darkness sets a light to him. Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gunpowder, and he determined to assay the effect of an explosion without loss of time. Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his place of concealment, and under cover of the shrubs before mentioned, approached the house. Fortune seemed determined to favour his design. Mr. Tutman and the rest of the gentlemen left the garden by the side gate, just as he obtained a view of it, and the young ladies he knew had walked out alone soon after breakfast. The coast was clear. The breakfast parlor door was partially open. He peeped in. The spinster aunt was knitting. He coughed. She looked up and smiled. Hesitation formed no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle's character. He laid his finger on his lips mysteriously, walked in and closed the door. Miss Wardle, said Mr. Jingle with affected earnestness, for give intrusion, short acquaintance, no time for ceremony, all discovered. Sir, said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected apparition and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle's sanity, hush, said Mr. Jingle in a stage whisper. Large boy, dumpling face, round eyes, rascal. Here, he shook his head expressively, and the spinster aunt trembled with agitation. I presume you allude to Joseph, sir, said the lady, making an effort to appear composed. Yes, ma'am, damn that Joe, treacherous dog Joe, told the old lady, old lady furious, wild, raving, harbour, topman, kissing and hugging, all that sort of thing. Amen, eh? Mr. Jingle, said the spinster aunt, if you come here, sir, to insult me, not at all by no means, replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle, overheard the tale, came to warn you of your danger, tender my services, prevent the hubbub, never mind, think it an insult, leave the room, and he turned as if to carry the threat into execution. What shall I do? said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. My brother will be furious. Of course he will, said Mr. Jingle, pausing, outrageous. Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say? exclaimed the spinster aunt in another flood of despair. Say he dreamt it, replied Mr. Jingle, coolly. A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. Mr. Jingle perceived it and followed up his advantage. Pooh-poo, nothing more easy, blaggard boy, lovely woman, fat boy, horse-whipped, you believed, end of the matter, all comfortable. Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-time discovery was delightful to the spinster's feelings, or whether the hearing herself described as a lovely woman softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. She blushed slightly and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle. That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt's face for a couple of minutes, started mellow dramatically and suddenly withdrew them. You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle, said the lady in a plaintive voice. May I show my gratitude for your kind interference by inquiring into the cause with a view if possible to its removal? Ha! exclaimed Mr. Jingle with another start. Removal? Remove my unhappiness and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing, who even now contemplates the design upon the affections of the niece of the creature? Who? But no, he is my friend. I will not expose his vices. Ms. Wardle, farewell. At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief before noticed and turned towards the door. Stay, Mr. Jingle, said the spinster aunt emphatically. You have made an allusion to Mr. Tutman. Explain it. Never, exclaimed Jingle with a professional, i.e., theatrical, air. Never. And by way of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further, he drew a chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down. Mr. Jingle, said the aunt, I entreat, I implore you. If there is any dreadful mystery connected with Mr. Tutman, reveal it. Can I, said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt's face. Can I see lovely creature, sacrificed at the shrine, heartless avarice? He appeared to be struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds and then said in a low voice, Tutman only wants your money. The wretch, exclaimed the spinster with energetic indignation. Mr. Jingle's doubts were resolved. She had money. More than that, said Jingle, loves another. Another ejaculated the spinster. Who? Short girl, black eyes, niece Emily. There was a pause. Now, if there was one individual in the whole world of whom the spinster aunt entertained a mortal and deep-rooted jealousy, it was this identical niece. The color rushed over her face and neck and she tossed her head in silence with an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips and bridling up, she said, it can't be. I won't believe it. Watch him, said Jingle. I will, said the aunt. Watch his looks. I will. His whispers. I will. He'll sit next to her at table. Let him. He'll flatter her. Let him. He'll pay her every possible attention. Let him. And he'll cut you. Cut me, screamed the spinster aunt. He cut me, will he? And she trembled with rage and disappointment. You will convince yourself, said Jingle. I will. You'll show your spirit? I will. You'll not have him afterwards? Never. You'll take somebody else? Yes. You shall. Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained there upon for five minutes thereafter, and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt conditionally upon Mr. Tutman's perjury being made clear and manifest. The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alford Jingle, and he produced his evidence that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe her eyes. Mr. Tracy Tutman was established at Emily's side, ogling, whispering, and smiling in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance that he bestow upon his heart's pride of the evening before. Damn that boy, thought old Mr. Wardle to himself. He had heard the story from his mother. Damn that boy. He must have been asleep. It's all imagination. Traitor, thought the spinster aunt. Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving me, og, how I hate the wretch. The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracy Tutman. The time was evening, the sea in the garden. There were two figures walking in a side path. One was rather short and stout, the other tall and slim. They were Mr. Tutman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced the dialogue. How did I do it? he inquired. Splendid capital couldn't act better myself. You must repeat the part tomorrow, every evening till further notice. Does Rachel still wish it? Of course. She don't like it, but must be done. Avert suspicion. Afraid of her brother says there's no help for it. Only a few days more when old folks blinded crown your happiness. Any message? Love, best love, kindest regards, unalterable affection. Can I say anything for you? My dear fellow replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tutman, fervently grasping his friend's hand. Carry my best love. Say how hard I find it to dissemble. Say anything that's kind. But add how sensible I am of the necessity of the suggestions she made to me through you this morning. Say I applaud her wisdom and admire her discretion. I will. Anything more? Nothing. Only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her mine. And all dissimulation may be unnecessary. Certainly, certainly anything more? Oh, my friend, said poor Mr. Tutman, again grasping the hand of his companion. Receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness, and forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice of supposing that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you? Don't talk of it, replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly recollecting something and said, by the by, can't spare ten pounds, can you? Very particular purpose, pay you in three days. I dare say I can, replied Mr. Tutman, in the fullness of his heart. Three days, you say? Only three days, all over then, no more difficulties. Mr. Tutman counted the money into his companion's hand, and he dropped it piece by piece into his pocket as they walked towards the house. Be careful, said Mr. Jingle. Not a look. Not a wink, said Mr. Tutman. Not a syllable. Not a whisper. All your attentions to the niece, rather rude than otherwise to the aunt, only way of deceiving the old ones. I'll take care, said Mr. Tutman, aloud. And I'll take care, said Mr. Jingle, internally, and they entered the house. The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three afternoons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in high spirits, for he had satisfied himself that there was no ground for the charge against Mr. Tutman. So was Mr. Tutman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his affair would soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous of Mr. Tutman. So was the old lady, for she had been winning at wist. So were Mr. Jingle and Ms. Wardle for reasons of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated in another chapter. The supper was ready-laid, the chairs were drawn round the table, bottles, jugs, and glasses were arranged upon the sideboard, and everything betokened to the approach of the most convivial period in the whole four and twenty hours. Where's Rachel? said Mr. Wardle. I, in Jingle, added Mr. Pickwick. Dear me, said the host, I wonder I haven't missed him before. Why, I don't think I've heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear, ring the bell. The bell was wrong, and the fat boy appeared. Where's Ms. Rachel? He couldn't say. Where's Mr. Jingle, then? He didn't know. Everybody looked surprised. It was late. Past eleven o'clock. Mr. Tubman laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere, talking about him. Capital notion that funny. Never mind, said Wardle, after a short pause. They'll turn up presently, I daresay. I never wait supper for anybody. Excellent rule that, said Mr. Pickwick, admirable. Pray sit down, said the host. Certainly, said Mr. Pickwick, and down they sat. There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and was on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused and laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused, too, and insensibly released his hold of the carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him. Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage. The parlor door was suddenly burst open, and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick's boots on his first arrival rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy and all the domestics. What, the devil's the meaning of this! exclaimed the host. The kitchen chimney ain't a fire, is it, Emma? He inquired the old lady. Lord Grandma, no! screamed both the young ladies. What's the matter? roared the master of the house. The man gasped for breath, and fatally ejaculated. They had gone, master, gone right clean off, sir. At this juncture Mr. Tubman was observed to lay down his knife and fork and to turn very pale. Who's gone? said Mr. Wardle fiercely. Mr. Jingle and Miss Rachel in a poche from Blue Lion Muggleton. I was there, but I couldn't stop them, so I'll run off to telly. I paid his expenses, said Mr. Tubman, jumping up frantically. He's got ten pounds of mine. Stop him. He's swindled me. I won't bear it. I'll have justice, Pickwick. I won't stand it. And with sundry incoherent exclamations of the light nature, the unhappy gentlemen spun round and round the apartment in a transport of frenzy. Lord preserve us, ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. He's gone mad. What shall we do? Do! said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sentence. Put the horse in the gig. I'll get a chase at the lion and follow him instantly. Where? he exclaimed as the man ran out to execute the commission. Where's that villain, Joe? Here I am, but I ain't a villain. Reply to voice. It was the fat boys. Let me get at him, Pickwick. Cried Wardle as he rushed at the ill-starred youth. He was bribed by that scoundrel Jingle to put me on a wrong scent by telling a cock and bull story of my sister and your friend Tubman. Here, Mr. Tubman sank into a chair. Let me get at him. Don't let him. Screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible. I won't be held, cried the old man. Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir. It was a beautiful sight in that moment of turmoil and confusion to behold the placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick's face, albeit somewhat flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive waist of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion. While the fat boy was scratched and pulled and pushed from the room by all the females congregated therein, he had no sooner released his hold than the man entered to announce that the gig was ready. Don't let him go alone. Screamed the females, he'll kill somebody. I'll go with him, said Mr. Pickwick. You're a good fellow, Pickwick, said the host, grasping his hand. Emma, give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck. Make haste. Look after your grandmother, girls, she is fainted away. Now, then, are you ready? Mr. Pickwick's mouth and chin, having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl, his hat having been put on his head, and his great coat thrown over his arm, he replied in the affirmative. They jumped into the gig. Give her her head, Tom, cried the host, and away they went, down the narrow lanes, jolting in and out of the cart, ruts and bumping up against the hedges on either side as if they would go to pieces every moment. How much are they ahead? shouted Wardle as they drove up to the door of the blue lion, round which a little crowd had collected late as it was. Not above three-quarters of an hour, was everybody's reply. Chasing four directly out with them, put up the gig afterwards. Now, boys, graduate landlord, chasing four out. Make haste. Look alive there. Away ran the hostlers and the boys. The lanterns glimmered as the men ran to and fro. The horses hooves clattered on the uneven paving of the yard. The chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach house, and all was noise and bustle. Now, then, is that chaise coming out tonight? cried Wardle. Coming down the yard now, sir, replied the hostler. Out came the chaise, and went the horses, on spraying the boys, and got the travelers. Mind the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour, shouted Wardle, off with you. The boys applied whip and spur. The waiters shouted. The hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously. Pretty situation, thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment's time for reflection. Pretty situation for the general chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise, strange horses, fifteen miles an hour and twelve o'clock at night. For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentleman, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion to remain any longer perfectly mute. We're sure to catch them, I think, said he. Hope so, replied his companion. Fine night, said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining brightly. So much the worse, returned Wardle, for they'll have had all the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will have gone down in another hour. It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won't it? inquired Mr. Pickwick. I daresay it will, replied his friend dryly. Mr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a little as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader. Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo! went the first boy. Yo, yo, yo, yo! went the second. Yo, yo, yo, yo! chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head in half his body out of the coach window. Yo, yo, yo, yo! shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object, and amidst the yo, yoing of the whole four the chaise stopped. What's the matter, inquired Mr. Pickwick? There's a gate here, replied old Wardle. We shall hear something of the fugitives. After a lapse of five minutes consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the churnpike house and opened at the gate. How long is it since a post-chase went through here, inquired Mr. Wardle? How long? Ah, well I don't rightly know. It warned a long time ago, nor it warned a short time ago. Just between the two, perhaps. Has any chaise been by at all? Oh yes, there's been a chaise by. How long ago, my friend, and opposed Mr. Pickwick an hour? Ah, I daresay it might be, replied the man. For two hours, inquired the post-boy on the wheeler. Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was, returned the old man doubtfully. Drive on, boys, cried the testy old gentleman. Don't waste any more time with that old idiot. Idiot, exclaimed the old man with a grin as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half closed, watching the chaise, which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance. No, not much of that, either. You've lost ten minutes here and gone away as wise as you came out or all. If every man on the line as has a guinea-gibbon earns it half as well, you won't catch Tother's chaise this side of nickel-miss old short and fat. And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re-entered his house, and bolted the door after him. Meanwhile the chaise proceeded without any slackening of pace towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the wane. Large tears of dark, heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass overhead. And large drops of rain, which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travelers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the narrow road and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the Hassler's bell, and a loud cry of, Horse is on directly! But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious soundness that it took five minutes apiece to wake them. The Hassler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through a fresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at once. But old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted. And he laid about him with such hearty goodwill, cuffing this man and pushing that, strapping a buckle here and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected under so many difficulties. They resumed their journey, and certainly the prospect before them was by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such obstacles united. It was hard upon one o'clock already, and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes and reanimated their drooping spirits. When did this chaise come in? cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the yard. Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir, replied the hostler, to whom the question was addressed. Lady and gentlemen, inquired Wardle, almost breathless, with impatience. Yes, sir. Tall gentlemen, dress-coat, long legs, thin body. Yes, sir. Elderly lady, thin face, rather skinny, eh? Yes, sir. By heavens it's a couple, Pickwick, exclaimed the old gentleman. Would have been here before, said the hostler, but they broke a trace. To them, said Wardle, it is, by jove, chaise and four instantly. We shall catch them yet before they reach the next stage. A giddy apiece, boys, be alive there, bustle about, there's good fellows. It was such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the yard and bustled to and fro in a state of excitement which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also, and under the influence of which that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaise, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey. Jump in, jump in, cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up the steps and slamming the door after him. Come along, make haste! And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other door by one pull from the old gentleman and one push from the hostler, and off they were again. Ah, we are moving now, said the old gentleman exultingly. They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick by his constant collision, either with the hard woodwork of the chaise or the body of his companion. Hold up! said the stout old Mr. Wardle as Mr. Pickwick dived head foremost into his capacious waistcoat. I never did feel such a jolting in my life, said Mr. Pickwick. Never mind, replied his companion. It will soon be over, steady, steady. Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner as firmly as he could, and on whirled the chaise faster than ever. They had travelled in this way about three miles when Mr. Wardle, who had been looking out of the window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his face covered with splashes and exclaimed in breathless eagerness, Here they are! Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes, there was a chaise and four a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop. Go on, go on, almost shriek, the old gentleman. Two giddies of peace, boys, don't let them gain on us. Keep it up, keep it up. The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed, and those in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them. I see his head, exclaimed the collaric old man. Damn, I see his head! So do I, said Mr. Pickwick, that's he. Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise, and the motion of his arm, which was waving violently towards the postillions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion. The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges seemed to rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle's voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation. But Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his menaces by a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop and left the pursuers behind. Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump, a loud crash, a way rolled a wheel and overwent the chaise. After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but the plunging of horses and breaking of glass could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise, and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his greatcoat, which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view. Old Mr. Wardle, without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places, stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with mud, and disordered by hard riding by the horse's heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The pastylians, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the coach window with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the gray light of the morning. Hello! shouted the shameless Jingle. Anybody damaged? Elderly gentlemen, no lightweight, dangerous work, very. You're a rascal, Wardle. Replyed Jingle and any added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise. I say she's very well. Desires her compliments. Begs you won't trouble yourself. Love to tuppy. Won't you get up behind? Drive on, boys. The pastylians resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise. Mr. Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach window. Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and equable current of Mr. Pickwick's temper. The villainy, however, which could first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to Tuppy, was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard and colored up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically. If I ever meet that man again, I'll. Yes, yes, interrupted Wardle. That's all very well. But while we stand talking here, they'll get their license and be married in London. Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corked it down. How far is it to the next stage? inquired Mr. Wardle of one of the boys. Six mile, ain't it, Tom? Wither better. Wither better than a six mile, sir. Can't be helped, said Wardle. We must walk it, Pickwick. No help for it, replied that truly great man. So sending forward one of the boys on horseback to procure a fresh chase in horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round their necks and slouching down their hats, to escape as much as possible from the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun to pour heavily down. End of Chapter 9 Chapter 10 of the Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Deborah Lynn. The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. Chapter 10. Clearing up all doubts, if any, existed of the disinterestedness of Mr. A. Jingle's character. There are in London several old ins, once the headquarters of celebrated coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more solemn manner than they do in these times, but which have now degenerated into little more than the abiding and booking places of country wagons. The reader would look in vain for any of these ancient hostilities among the golden crosses and bullen mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps to the obscure quarters of the town, and there, in some secluded nooks, he will find several still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness amidst the modern innovations which surround them. In the borough especially, there still remain some half-dozen old ins, which have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike the rage for public improvement and the encroachments of private speculation. Great rambling queer old places they are, with galleries and passages and staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innumerable voracious legends connected with old London Bridge and its adjacent neighborhood on the Surrey side. It was in the yard of one of these ins, of no less celebrated to one than the white heart, that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of boots early on the morning, succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. He was habited in a coarse striped waistcoat with black calico sleeves and blue glass buttons, drab breeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound in a very loosened, unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was carelessly thrown on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row he paused from his work and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction. The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual characteristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering wagons, each with a pile of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second floor window of an ordinary house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over one end of the yard, and another which was probably to commence its journey that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of bedroom galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee room. Two or three gigs and chaise carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and penthouses, and the occasional heavy tread of a cart horse, or rattling of a chain at the farther end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smop frocks were lying asleep on heavy packages, wool packs, and other articles that were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the general appearance of the yard of the White Heart Inn, High Street Burrow, on the particular morning in question. A loud ringing of one of the bells was followed by the appearance of a smart chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades, Sam, hello, replied the man with the white hat. Number twenty-two wants his boots. Ask number twenty-two whether he'll have them now or wait till he gets them, was the reply. Come, don't be a fool, Sam, said the girl coaxingly. The gentleman wants his boots directly. Well, you are a nice young woman for a musical party you are, said the boot cleaner. Look at these here boots. Eleven pair of boots and one shoe belongs to number six with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called at half past eight and the shoe at nine. Whose number twenty-two that's to put all the others out? No, no, regular rotation, as Jack Ketch said, when he tied the men up. Sorry to keep you all waiting, sir, but I'll attend to you directly. Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top boot with increased assiduity. There was another loud ring and the bustling old landlady of the white heart made her appearance in the opposite gallery. Sam, cried the landlady. Where is that lazy idol? Why, Sam, oh, there you are. Why don't you answer? Wouldn't be genteel to answer till you'd done talking, replied Sam gruffly. Here, clean these shoes for number seventeen directly and take them to private sitting room number five first floor. The landlady flung a pair of ladies' shoes into the yard and bustled away. Number five, said Sam as he picked up the shoes and taking a piece of chalk from his pocket, made a memorandum of their destination on the soles. Ladies' shoes and private sitting room, I suppose she didn't come in the wagon. She came in early this morning, cried the girl who was still leaning over the railing of the gallery with a gentleman in a hackney coat and it's him who wants his boots and you'd better do them, that's all about it. If I didn't just say so before, said Sam with great indignation, signaling out the boots in question from the heat before him, for all I knowed he was one of the regular three pennies, private room and a lady too. If he's anything of a gentleman, he's worth a shill and a day, let alone the errands. Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such hearty goodwill that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren, for they used day and Martin at the White Heart, had arrived at the door of number five. Come in, said a man's voice and replied to Sam's wrap at the door. Sam made his best bow and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentleman seated at breakfast. Having officially deposited to the gentleman's boots right and left at his feet, and the lady's shoes right and left at hers, he backed towards the door. Boots, said the gentleman. Sir, said Sam, closing the door and keeping his hand on the knob of the lock. Do you know what's the name? Drs. Commons? Yes, sir. Where is it? Paul's churchyard, sir. Low archway on the carriage side, booksellers at one corner, hotel on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licenses. Touts for licenses, said the gentleman. Touts for licenses, replied Sam. Two coves, invite aprons, touches their hats when you walk in. License? Sir, license? Queersort them and their masses, too, sir. Old Bailey Proctors, no mistake. What do they do, inquired the gentleman. Do you, sir? That ain't the worst in it, neither. They put stings into old gentleman's heads as they never dreamed of. My father, sir, was a coachman. A widower, he was, and fat enough for anything. Uncommon fat, to be sure. His missus dies and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the commons to see the lawyer and draw the blunt. Very smart. Top boots on, nose gay in his buttonhole, broad brim tile, green shawl. Quite the gentleman. Goes to the archway, thinking how he should unwest the money. Up comes the touter, touches his hat. License, sir? License? What's that, says my father. License, sir? Says he. What license, says my father. Marriage license, says the touter. Dash my basket, says my father. I never thought of that. I think you want one, sir, says the touter. My father pulls up and thinks a bit. No, says he. Damn me, I'm too old. Besides, I'm of many sizes too large, says he. Not a bit in it, sir, says the touter. Think not, says my father. I'm sure not, says he. We married a gentleman twice your size last Monday. Did you, though, said my father? To be sure we did, says the touter. You're a babby to him. This way, sir, this way. And sure enough, my father walks out at him like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, veriteller sat among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. Pray take a seat while I make out the affidavit, sir, says the lawyer. Thank you, sir, says my father. And down he sat and stared with all his eyes and his mouth wide open at the names on the boxes. What's your name, sir, says the lawyer. Tony Weller, says my father. Parrish, says the lawyer. Bell Savage, says my father, for he stopped there when he drove up and he knowed nothing about Parrish, as he didn't. And what's the lady's name, says the lawyer. My father was struck all of a heap. Blessed if I know, says he. Not know, says the lawyer. No more you do, says my father. Can I put that in utter words? Impossible, says the lawyer. Very well, says my father after he thought a moment. Put down on Mrs. Clark. What Clark, says the lawyer, dipping his pen in the ink. Susan Clark, Marcus of Granby-Dorking, says my father. She'll have me if I ask, I just say. I never said nothing to her, but she'll have me, I know. The license was made out, and she did have him. And what's more, she's got him now. And I never had any of the 400 pound worst luck. Beg your pardon, sir, said Sam, when he had concluded. But when I get on this here grievance, I run down like a new barrel with the wheel greased. Having said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for anything more, Sam left the room. Half past nine, just a time, off at once, said the gentleman, whom we need hardly introduce, says Mr. Jingle. Time for what, said the spinster aunt, coquettishly. License, dearest of angels, give notice at the church. Call you mine tomorrow, said Mr. Jingle. And he squeezed the spinster aunt's hand. The license, said Rachel, blushing. The license, repeated Mr. Jingle. In hurry, post haste for a license. In hurry, ding dong, I come back. How you run on, said Rachel. Run on? Nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we're united. Run on. The fly on, bolt, missile, steam engine, thousand horsepower, nothing to it. Can't, can't we be married before tomorrow morning? Inquired Rachel. Impossible, can't be. Notice at the church. Leave the license today. Ceremony come off tomorrow. I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us, said Rachel. Discover? Nonsense. Too much shaken by the breakdown. Besides, extreme caution. Gave up the post chase, walked on, took a hat, knee coach, came to the borough. Last place in the world that he'd look in. Ha ha, capital notion, that, very. Don't be long, said the spinster affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the pinched up hat on his head. Long away from you, cruel charmer, and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of the room. Dear man, said the spinster as the door closed after him. Rum old girl, said Mr. Jingle as he walked down the passage. It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species, and we will not therefore pursue the threat of Mr. Jingle's meditations, as he went at his way to Doctor's Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate that escaping the snares of the dragons and white aprons who guard the entrance to that enchanted region, he reached the vicar general's office in safety, and having procured a highly flattering address on parchment from the Archbishop of Canterbury to his trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachel Wardle greeting, he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket and retraced his steps in triumph to the burrow. He was yet on his way to the White Heart when two plump gentlemen and one thin one entered the yard and looked round in search of some authorized person of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds of cold beef and a pot or two of porter after the fatigue of the burrow market, and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced. My friend, said the thin gentleman, you're one of the advice gratis order thoughts, Sam, or you wouldn't be so wary of falling to me all at once, but he only said, well, sir. My friend, said the thin gentleman with a conciliatory hymn, have you got many people stopping here now? Pretty busy, eh? Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high dried man with a dark squeezed up face and small restless black eyes that kept winking and twinkling on each side of his little inquisitive nose as if they were playing a perpetual game of peep-bow with that feature. He was dressed all in black with boots as shiny as his eyes, a low white neck cloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch chain and seals depended from his bob. He carried his black kid gloves in his hands and not on them, and as he spoke thrust his wrists beneath his coat tails with the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers. Pretty busy, eh? said the little man. Oh, very well, sir, replied Sam. We shan't be bankrupts and we shan't make our fortunes. We eat our biled mutton without capers and don't care for horseradish then we can get beef. Ah, said the little man. You're away, ain't you? My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint, said Sam. It may be catching. I used to sleep with him. This is a curious old house of yours, said the little man, looking round him. If you'd said word you was a common, we'd have had it repaired, replied the imperturbable Sam. The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a short consultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen. At its conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box, and was apparently on the point of renewing the conversation when one of the plump gentlemen, who, in addition to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of spectacles and a pair of black gators, interfered. The fact of the matter is, said the benevolent gentleman, that my friend here, pointing to the other plump gentleman, will give you half a guinea if you'll answer one or two. Now, my dear sir, my dear sir, said the little man. Pray allow me, my dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases is this. If you place the matter in the hands of a professional man, you must in no way interfere in the progress of the business. You must propose implicit confidence in him. Really, mister, he turned to the other plump gentleman and said, I forget your friend's name. Pickwick, said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that jolly personage. Ah, Pickwick, really, Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me, I shall be happy to receive any private suggestions of yours as amicus curiae. But you must see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this case, with such an ad kept tandem argument as the offer of half a guinea. Really, my dear sir, really. And the little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff and looked very profound. My only wish, sir, said Mr. Pickwick, was to bring this very unpleasant matter to as speedy a close as possible. Quite right, quite right, said the little man. With which view, continued Mr. Pickwick, I made use of the argument which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any case. Hey, hey, said the little man. Very good, very good indeed, but you should have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I'm quite certain you cannot be ignorant of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the well-known case in Barnwell and... Never mind George Barnwell, interrupted Sam, who had remained a wondering listener during this short colloquy. Everybody knows what sort of a case his was, though it's always been my opinion, mind you, that the young woman deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did. However, that's neither here nor there. You want me to accept of half a guinea. Very well, I'm agreeable. I can't say no fairer than that, can I, sir? Mr. Pickwick smiled. Then the next question is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said when he see the ghost? We want to know, said Mr. Wardle. Now my dear sir, my dear sir, interposed the busy little man. Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders and was silent. We want to know, said the little man solemnly, and we ask the question of you in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside. We want to know who you've got in this house at present. Who there is in the house, said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were always represented by that particular article of their costume which came under his immediate superintendence. There's a wooden leg in number six. There's a pair of Hessians in thirteen. There's two pair of halves in the commercial. There's these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar, and five more tops in the coffee room. Nothing more, said the little man. Stop a bit, replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. Yes, there's a pair of Wellington's a good deal worn in a pair of ladies shoes in number five. What sort of shoes? Hastily inquired Wardle, who together with Mr. Pickwick had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalog of visitors. Countrymake, replied Sam. Any makers' name? Brown. Whereof? Muggleton. It is them, exclaimed Wardle. By heavens we've found them. Hush, said Sam. The Wellington's has gone to Doctor's Commons. No, said the little man. Yes, for a license. We're in time, exclaimed Wardle. Show us the room. Not a moment is to be lost. Pray, my dear sir, pray, said the little man. Caution, caution. He drew from his pocket a red silk purse and looked very hard at Sam as he drew out a sovereign. Sam grinned expressively. Show us into the room at once without announcing us, said the little man, and it's yours. Sam threw the painted tops into a corner and led the way through a dark passage and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second passage and held out his hand. Here it is, whispered the attorney as he deposited the money on the hand of their guide. The man stepped forward for a few paces followed by the two friends and their legal advisor. He stopped at a door. Is this the room, murmured the little gentleman? Sam nodded ascent. Old Wardle opened the door and the whole three walked into the room, just as Mr. Jingle, who at that moment returned, had produced the license to the spinster aunt. The spinster uttered a loud shriek and, throwing herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the license and thrust it into his coat pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the room. You! You are a nice rascal, aren't you? exclaimed Wardle, breathless with passion. My dear sir, my dear sir, said the little man, laying his head on the table. Pray consider, pray. Defamation of character, action for damages. Calm yourself, my dear sir, pray. How dare you drag my sister from my house? said the old man. A. A. Very good, said the little gentleman. You may ask that. How dare you, sir? A. Sir. Who the devil are you? inquired Mr. Jingle. In so fierce a tone that the little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two. Who is he, you scoundrel? Interposed Wardle. He's my lawyer, Mr. Perker of Grey's Inn. Perker, I'll have this fellow prosecuted, indicted, I'll out-warn him. And you, continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round to his sister. You, Rachel, at a time of life when you ought to know better, what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family and making yourself miserable? Get on your bonnet and come back. Call a hackney coach there directly and bring this lady's bill. Do you hear? Do you hear? Certainly, sir, replied Sam, who had answered Wardle's violent ringing of the bell with a degree of celerity, which must have appeared marvelous to anybody who didn't know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole during this whole interview. Get on your bonnet, repeated Wardle. Do nothing of the kind, said Jingle. Leave the room, sir. No business here. Lady's free to act as she pleases. More than one in twenty. More than one in twenty, ejaculated Wardle contemptuously. More than one in forty. I ain't, said the spinster aunt, her indignation getting the better of her determination to faint. You are, replied Wardle, your fifty if you're an hour. Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek and became senseless. A glass of water, said the humane Mr. Pickwick, summoning the landlady. A glass of water, said the passionate Wardle. Bring a bucket and throw it all over her and it'll do her good and she richly deserves it. Oh, you brute, ejaculated the kindhearted landlady. Poor dear, and with sundry ejaculations of come now, there's a dear. Drink a little of this. It'll do you good. Don't give way so. There's a love, et cetera, et cetera. The landlady, assisted by a chambermaid, proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat the hands, titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer such other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate females to ladies who are endeavoring to ferment themselves into hysterics. Coach is ready, sir, said Sam, appearing at the door. Come along, cried Wardle, all carrier downstairs. At this proposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence. The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this proceeding, and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered himself a lord of the creation when Mr. Jingle interposed. Boots, said he, get me an officer. Stay, stay, said little Mr. Perker. Consider, sir, consider. On that consider, replied Jingle, she's her own mistress. See who dares to take her away, unless she wishes it. I won't be taken away, murmured the spinster aunt. I don't wish it. Here there was a frightful relapse. My dear sir, said the little man in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr. Pickwick apart. My dear sir, we're in a very awkward situation. It's a distressing case, very. I never knew one more so. But really, my dear sir, really we have no power to control this lady's actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, that there was nothing to look to but a compromise. There was a short pause. What kind of compromise would you recommend, inquired Mr. Pickwick? Why, my dear sir, our friends in an unpleasant position, very much so. We must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss. I'll suffer any rather than submit to this disgrace and let her fool as she is be made miserable for life, said Wardle. I rather think it can be done, said the bustling little man. Mr. Jingle, will you step with us into the next room for a moment? Mr. Jingle is centred, and the quartet walked into an empty apartment. Now, sir, said the little man as he carefully closed the door. Is there no way of accommodating this matter? Step this way, sir, for a moment. Into this window, sir, where we can be alone. There, sir, there. Praise it down, sir. Now, my dear sir, between you and I, we know very well, my dear sir, that you have run off with this lady for the sake of her money. Don't frown, sir, don't frown. I say between you and I, we know it. We are both men of the world, and we know very well that our friends here are not, eh? Mr. Jingle's face gradually relaxed, and something distantly resembling a wink quivered for an instant in his left eye. Very good, very good, said the little man, observing the impression he had made. Now, the fact is that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has little or nothing till the death of her mother. Fine old lady, my dear sir. Old, said Mr. Jingle briefly but emphatically. Why, yes, said the attorney with a slight cough. You are right, my dear sir, she is rather old. She comes of an old family, though, my dear sir. Old in every sense of the word. The founder of that family came into Kent when Julius Caesar invaded Britain. Only one member of it since who hasn't lived to 85, and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not 73 now, my dear sir. The little man paused and took a pinch of snuff. Well, cried Mr. Jingle. Well, my dear sir, you don't take snuff? So much better, expensive habit. Well, my dear sir, you are a fine young man, man of the world, able to push your fortune if you had capital, eh? Well, said Mr. Jingle again. Do you comprehend me? Not quite. Don't you think now, my dear sir? I put it to you. Don't you think that 50 pounds in liberty would be better than Miss Wardle in expectation? Won't do, not half enough, said Mr. Jingle, rising. Nay, nay, my dear sir, demonstrated the little attorney, seizing him by the button. Good round some. A man like you could treble it in no time. Great deal to be done with 50 pounds, my dear sir. More to be done with 150, replied Mr. Jingle coolly. Well, my dear sir, we won't waste time in splitting straws, resumed the little man. Say, say 70. Won't do, said Mr. Jingle. Don't go away, my dear sir. Pray don't hurry, said the little man. 80. Come, I'll write you a check at once. Won't do, said Mr. Jingle. Well, my dear sir, well, said the little man, still detaining him. Just tell me what we'll do. Expensive affair, said Mr. Jingle. Money out of pocket. Posting nine pounds. License three. That's 12. Compensation 112. Breach of honor and loss of the lady. Yes, my dear sir. Yes, said the little man with a knowing look. Never mind the last two items. That's 112. Say a hundred. Come. And 20, said Mr. Jingle. Come, come. I'll write you a check, said the little man. And down he sat at the table for that purpose. I'll make it payable the day after tomorrow, said the little man, with a look towards Mr. Wardle. And we can get the lady away, meanwhile. Mr. Wardle sullenly nodded assent. A hundred, said the little man. And 20, said Mr. Jingle. My dear sir, remonstrated the little man. Give it him, interposed Mr. Wardle, and let him go. The check was written by the little gentleman and pocketed by Mr. Jingle. Now leave this house instantly, said Wardle, starting up. My dear sir, urged the little man. And mind, said Mr. Wardle, that nothing should have induced me to make this compromise, not even a regard for my family. If I had not known that the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you'd go to the devil faster, if possible, than you would without it. My dear sir, urged the little man again. Be quiet, perker, resumed Wardle. Leave the room, sir. Off directly, said the unabashed Jingle. Bye-bye, Pickwick. If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illustrious man whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work, during the latter part of this conversation, he would have been almost induced to wonder that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes did not melt the glasses of his spectacles. So majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated and his fists clenched involuntarily as he heard himself addressed by the villain. But he restrained himself again. He did not pulverize him. Here, continued the hardened trader, tossing the license at Mr. Pickwick's feet, get the name altered, take home the lady due for tuppy. Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armor after all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the ink stand madly forward and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found himself caught in the arms of Sam. Hello, said that eccentric functionary. Furniture's cheap where you come from, sir. Self-acting ink that air. It's wrote your mark upon the wall, old gentleman. Hold still, sir. Watch the use of running ardor a man as has made his lucky and got to tether end of the borough by this time. Mr. Pickwick's mind, like those of all truly great men, was open to conviction. He was a quick and powerful reasoner, and a moment's reflection sufficed to remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been roused. He panted for breath and looked benignantly round upon his friends. Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued when Miss Bortle found herself deserted by the faithless Jingle? Shall we extract Mr. Pickwick's masterly description of that heart-rending scene? His notebook, lauded with the tears of sympathizing humanity, lies open before us. One word, and it is in the printer's hands. But no. We will be resolute. We will not ring the public bosom with the delineation of such suffering. Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady return next day in the muggleton-heavy coach. Dimly and darkly had the somber shadows of a summer's night fallen upon all around when they again reached Dingley Dell and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm.